


cupid painted blind

by yeeharley



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe- Modern Royalty, BAMF Peter Parker, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Injury, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Protective Harley Keener, Protective Pepper Potts, Romantic Tension, Terminal Illnesses, Tony Stark Acting as Harley Keener's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, because the queen is underrated and deserves more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley
Summary: "I don't know what you want us to do," Pepper says, and the amount of frustration in her voice is actually tangible. "We have to protect you, Harley. You have to have a guard, but there are so few people willing to take this job given your track record. The majority of our new candidates aren't even prepared to take you on.""You make me sound like some kind of project." He doesn't miss the way she flinches. "I don't want a security detail, Pep. Everyone you pick is so much older than me," Harley snaps, "and it makes it so hard for me to act like a normal person.""You don't think we get that? I've had people following me everywhere I go since I was born, Harley.""And you're not a normal person, like it or not," Pepper says softly."I know you know that, but you have to accept it. You are always going to have someone hovering around you and keeping you safe, because there are other people hovering around you who want to hurt you.""I know.""Do you? Because you're acting like a teenage delinquent." Pause. "You're twenty, Harley. I need you to act like it."(A parkner bodyguard au)
Relationships: Cassie Lang/Abbie Keener/Lila Barton, Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker/Harley Keener, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Comments: 71
Kudos: 194





	1. Rosemary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentioned terminal illnesses, character death, a very small mention of addiction (teensy-weensy, non-graphic)

_**'' Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,** _

_**And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind ''** _

_\- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream -_

_(Act I, Scene I)_

\- ♜ -

Harley's copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ was worn and faded in that special way that only well-read books can be. Every other page had a folded corner, either at the top or the bottom, marking a spot where he'd had to put it down, maybe for a lesson or to go to bed or just because he needed a moment to breathe and think about what he'd just read. There were orange Fanta stains on pages eighteen through thirty-four from the time Abby had knocked his drink with her elbow. A cigarette stain on the back cover from Harley's first and last time smoking. 

He had annotated his way through the third time he'd read it, highlighting anything and everything that stood out to him in a pastel blue color that reminded him of cloud-free skies and clear seas. There was black pen in the margins, scribbling out anything from notes and arrows to random doodles (that was from his drawing stage, which he'd gotten over _very_ quickly).

Now, Harley had never in his life read a book that told more than one story- he didn't think they existed, really. After all, a book and a story are on in the same, blended together with binding glue and string and paper. Telling more than one story in a book would, in his opinion, take away from its value. Make it hard to focus on one storyline.

But _A Midsummer Night's Dream,_ for Harley, told two stories- that of Theseus and Hippolyta and that of Harley Keener-Stark. He could read it once and simultaneously take in two entirely different plots, skimming over both the words and the marks that he had left. The burns, the stains, the ink and color, the rips and folds.

That was _his_ story. He had written it all on his own; had done it without really realizing.

Harley could look at his work and know what it meant. It was _his_ and his alone, made by him, crafted by him, broken by him.

Nobody could change that.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table of the Starks' Manhattan penthouse, he wants nothing more than to hurl it at the nearest wall as a sort of accessory for his dramatic exit. Maybe as a way to show that he's well and _truly_ done with this conversation, because no matter how many angry glares he shoots at Tony, his guardian _will not stop talking._

There aren't many things that can get Tony Stark out of lecture mode. Pepper, of course, is one of them, but she's not likely to try and help because she's in lecture mode, too. She's not really contributing, actually, but the look on her face is enough to tell Harley that she's not going to interfere with her husband's latest tirade. If he tries to mouth off, it'll just be worse.

So he sits there and takes it. 

"You've run off every damn security guard we've been able to hire," Tony shouts, pacing back and forth next to the counter. "Every bodyguard, every high-level trainee, every _single_ _person_ who would take the job. And you've managed to get rid of _every single one_ within a _week._ "

Harley nods and tries to repress a smile. It's true, he's dodged them all to the point of ruining them. 

"I don't even know how you did it," Tony continues. "These people are well paid, well trained, patient. Good at their jobs."

He's not wrong. Natasha, Clint, Steven, Brett- they'd all been _very_ good at their jobs. Harley was just better at being an obnoxious little bitch.

"I don't know what you want us to do," Pepper says, and the amount of frustration in her voice is actually _tangible._ "We have to protect you, Harley. You _have_ to have a guard, but there are so few people willing to take this job given your track record. The majority of our new candidates aren't even _prepared_ to take you on."

"You make me sound like some kind of project." He doesn't miss the way she flinches. "I don't _want_ a security detail, Pep. Everyone you pick is so much _older_ than me," Harley snaps, "and it makes it _so hard_ for me to act like a normal person."

"You don't think we get that? I've had people following me everywhere I go since I was _born,_ Harley."

"And you're not a normal person, like it or not," Pepper says softly."I know you know that, but you have to _accept it._ You are always going to have someone hovering around you and keeping you safe, because there are _other_ people hovering around you who want to _hurt_ you."

"You're a prince, kid." Tony stops his pacing, places a hand on his forehead. "You're a prince and an heir to _my_ throne."

"I _know._ "

"Do you? Because you're acting like a teenage delinquent." Pause. "You're twenty, Harley. I need you to act like it."

Harley flinches, lowering his head to stare at the worn book in his hands. He turns it over a few times, scrutinizing the front and back covers for marks and scuffs, brushing fingers over the familiar paper.

"I know," he says again, but this time, there's no hint of fight in his voice. "Sorry. Sorry for chasing Brett off."

Tony sighs and pushes the seat across from Harley away from the table and sitting with the weight of Atlas fallen. "It's okay," he says, and just like his kid, his argumentative spirit is gone. "It was a pretty impressive move, anyways. Hopping off the subway like that, I mean."

Harley chuckles. "You should've seen his face, Tones. Best thing I've seen in a while."

"I wish I had."

Pepper cuts in then, gently tapping her right hand against the table for their attention. "As happy as I am that my boys are getting along again," she says, "there's still the issue of your new bodyguard."

She clicks her tongue at Harley's groan. "None of that, kiddo. You know you have to have one, but it's important to me and Tony that you're happy. If you want, you can look through some case files with us and help us pick, okay?"

It sounds like the best deal he's going to get, and being able to at least have a hand in the decision will help him feel a bit better about this. He nods, albeit reluctantly, and Pepper reaches into the satchel at her side. She pulls out a stack of manilla folders and tosses them onto the table, where they fan out between Harley and Tony like a deck of playing cards.

"These are the best of our latest submissions." 

Tony rolls his eyes. "Most of them were hot garbage," he mutters. "You've worked through the pick of the litter."

"Well," Harley says primly, already picking out one of the files and opening it up. "They couldn't have been the pick of the litter if I got rid of them that easily."

The first file is, absolutely, _hot garbage._ The guy, Cal (what a name), has a _criminal record._ Breaking and entering, aggravated assault, sexual harassment. Harley tosses it aside almost as soon as he's opened it and moves to the next, which shows zero promise as well.

Most of the people who had bothered to send in a job application seem like morons looking for a few seconds of fame and a chance to get on Harley's good side. There are worse things, of course, and he can't blame people for wanting a bit of time in the spotlight, but it's not a great idea for people like that to be his sole protectors. If he's going to have a bodyguard, whoever it is has to be at least _a little bit_ capable.

Then there are the people who come across as _very shady_ and probably up to no good. There aren't many applications like that, but the ones that fit the bill are absolutely _terrifying._ There's a woman who looks like she could _actually_ kill him and has something in her file (just a little blurb that should probably be more detailed and serves as a red flag) about mysterious parental disappearances. 

Yeah, he's not really interested in letting the people who want to hurt him get closer to him.

That would be counterintuitive.

The three of them sit there for what seems like hours, sifting through a steadily shrinking pile of files with absolutely no luck. Pepper looks like she actually wants to hurt somebody when she reaches her fourth case file, and Tony doesn't get to his third without pulling a mini-bottle of what seems to be vodka from his pocket.

Harley, who is still twenty and doesn't have the guts to drink illegally in front of his parents, uses every bit of his self-restraint to avoid asking for a sip.

By the second hour, they're reaching the bottom of the pile and the end of their respective ropes. Harley, whose hope in finding a moderately-okay candidate has dropped significantly, sighs and reaches for another file.

The age stands out in bold on the first page- _nineteen._ Younger even than Harley; how in the world had a kid gotten into this pile?

"Is this a mistake?" Harley asks, furrowing his brow as he hands the file to Pepper. 

Pepper skims the first page, worrying her lip between her teeth, before shaking her head. "Nope. Peter Parker, nineteen, and one of the more promising people who applied."

"Is he any good?" Tony asks absently, taking another swig out of his mini-bottle. 

"Supposed to be. He's taken a few lower-level jobs from celebrities and corporations, and nobody's ever been hurt on his watch," she says. "Been working in the business since seventeen."

Harley takes the file back and reads over it. There's no picture in Peter Parker's case file, unlike the others- maybe it has something to do with his age? He's been training in martial arts for over a decade and the endorsements left by his previous employers look pretty legitimate. Harley's having a hard time believing that someone younger than him could do a good job protecting him, but hey, he likes being surprised.

"See anything you like?" Tony asks, unable to keep the dryness out of his voice. "Because we need to have someone hired by the end of the week."

Harley holds up the now-closed file. "Peter Parker. Seems okay."

"And you promise that if we interview this Parker guy and decide he's a good enough hire for you, you'll try to avoid running away from him?"

"I guess. If he's tolerable."

"I'll take that," Pepper says, before taking the file and looking through it for a number. "Pleasure doing business with you, Harley."

\- ♜ -

Peter's walking down an empty street when he gets the call. It's literally the middle of the night- he's just finished his third shift of the day, this one worked at the grocery store on Fifth and Markhan, and he's _really_ ready to go to sleep. The soft yellow lighting cast by the streetlamps isn't helping with that- if he wasn't so aware of the dangers of being unaware in a big city like New York, he'd probably lie down right there in the middle of the sidewalk and let himself drift off to dreamland.

But that would be a really bad idea. He's not going to do that.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, vibrating against his leg. Peter furrows his brow and looks down, sliding his hand into denim to check and see who the caller is.

Ned and MJ, who work with him at the grocery store, are the only people outside of his family and employers who have his number. They don't really call him, anyways, and the hospital normally calls his home phone.

A chill runs down his spine. They call his cell for emergencies, and if there's been an emergency, that means _May-_

Peter picks up the call without checking the ID.

"Hello?" His mouth is dry with nerves. 

_"Is this Peter Parker?"_

The voice is unfamiliar, male, probably somewhere in his forties or fifties. No discernable accent, definitely not from Queens, probably not from the hospital.

"Yes, it is," Peter says, picking up his pace. "Can I ask who's calling?"

_"My name is Harold Hogan. I'm calling on behalf of the Stark family regarding your job application. You sent in a job application, right?"_

It feels like the air has been punched right out of Peter's lungs. He stops moving, dumbstruck, and stares down at the screen of his phone. The caller ID checks out- he remembers giving somebody from the Starks' security team his number when he'd submitted his application.

He'd just never thought they'd pick him.

"Yessir."

 _"Good,"_ Hogan says curtly. _"Can you come in for an interview tomorrow?"_

"Sir?"

_"God, do I have to spell it out for you? You're being considered for the job. Can you come in for the interview or not?"_

"A-at what time?" Peter stutters, already thinking about the shifts he'll have to give to other people and the cuts he's going to have to make. If he's accepted, he can cut two of his three jobs and use the grocery job to pay his own bills. The bodyguard job would be enough to pay for May's treatment, and if he's just making ends meet now-

_"One-thirty on the dot."_

"Yessir, I can make it."

_"Good. Stark Tower, one-thirty, fifteenth floor. Don't be late."_

Dial tone.

He'd hung up.

"Oh, my God," Peter whispers. "Oh, my _God._ "

He doesn't have anything nice enough to wear for a job interview with the _actual king and queen_ of America. What do you even wear to that sort of thing? He's done interviews, sure, but they've mostly been for jobs like stocking shelves and driving supplies. The bodyguard jobs he'd managed to land had been set up by someone he didn't even _know_ , just another contact he'd managed to make over the last few years. He hadn't actually had to show for an interview.

But Peter knows that he has to land this job, because cash is tight and there's no way he'll be able to pay for the treatments and research without it. This is the most lucrative thing he's been close to since he'd started working at fifteen- hell, probably the most lucrative thing he'll _ever_ be close to.

He can't fuck it up.

He can't afford to.

There's an old suit in the back of his little closet back home, and it's in good enough shape to look like new if he irons it and washes it a few times. It had been Ben's before he had died, and while Peter knows that he's much smaller than Ben ever was, he should be able to fill it out enough for it to fit moderately well.

All he can do is hope that the Starks' put more stock in effort than the end product. He's probably putting his money on nothing, though; they're not going to care if he tries to protect their son and he still ends up dead.

\- ♜ -

Harley shows up to the interview in sweatpants, an MIT t-shirt, and the sparkliest pair of pink flip flops Tony and Pepper have ever seen. He's got his book in hand, as usual, and he plops down in the seat next to the former's desk like he owns the place before taking a sip of his iced coffee and sighing happily.

It's not the weirdest thing they've seen him do, but it may be close.

Pepper, decked out in her usual pencil skirt and blazer, stares at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow as he slurps his coffee, rattling the straw nervously. Tony bites his lip to try and hold his laugh in.

"Harley."

"Pepper."

"Oh, my _God,_ " Tony snorts. "Where did you get those shoes?"

Harley glances down at his feet and shrugs. "Target, I think. Why, you want a pair?"

Tony looks at Pepper, who looks like she's about to blow her lid, and shakes his head quickly. "Not really my style, kiddo. You'll have to set the trend by yourself."

"I have so many questions," Pepper mutters. She takes a seat behind the desk, gives Harley one more frustrated look, and places her head in her hands. "What are you _doing?"_

"Drinking coffee."

" _Harley."_

"Okay, okay!" Harley slams his book down on the table and shakes his head, rolling his eyes. "You're no fun, Pep."

"Answer the question," Tony mutters. "Please, dear _God,_ just answer it."

Another eyeroll. "Parker's a kid so he can't care if I dress like this. If he does, it's weird. And it won't work."

"So this is some kind of weird test?" She shakes her head and pulls her phone out, tapping something out on the screen. "You're going to be the death of me, Harley."

"Hope not."

"Sure."

The office lapses back into silence again, Pepper scrolling through her phone, Harley reading his book, Tony doing whatever he does to pass time. The sound of rustling paper fills the air, silk-soft moths' wings flapping around in the silence. Somewhere far below, an ambulance sounds its alarms, flying through the streets of the city. Even up in a penthouse, far away from the troubles of the city, traffic noise makes its way through the window. 

_I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,_

_Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,_

_Quite overcanopied with luscious woodbine,_

_With sweet musk roses, and with eglantine._

_There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,_

_Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight;_

_And there the snake throws her enameled skin,_

_Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in._

_And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes_

_And make her full of hateful fantasies._

_Take thou some of it and seek through this grove._

_A sweet Athenian lady-_

A knock on the closed door, quiet and timid, pulls Harley out of the middle of his story. He slams the book closed and places it on the table with a disproportionate amount of care, setting it parallel to the edge of the mahogany, and spins around in his office chair to face the door. Tony checks his watch, raising an eyebrow.

"He's right on time," Pepper says, gently sliding his sleeve back over his wrist. "No worries."

"That's him?" Harley asks, raising an eyebrow.

"That's him."

Tony stands, brushing off the neatly-pleated legs of his pants, and steps over to stand beside the door. There's an odd buzzing feeling in Harley's stomach; he's never been present for any of the interviews and he doesn't really know what to expect. Still, he doesn't really understand why he's so _nervous._ It's just another bodyguard, just another employee.

He'll probably be gone within a few weeks.

"Ready?" Tony asks, pointedly staring at Harley's pale face. His hand is on the doorknob.

There's another hesitant knock, this one even quieter than the first.

"Yeah," Harley mutters. He feels kind of bad for making the guy wait; he's probably four times as nervous as Harley is. "Yeah, I am."

Tony nods and opens the door. His body blocks Harley and Pepper's view of Parker for a moment. The former leans forward, trying to catch a glimpse of him, but he's unable to get anything but the edge of a scuffed-up pair of black converse high-tops.

_Black converse high-tops._

Dear God.

Tonys steps aside then, sweeping an arm around to clear a path, and Harley's caught completely off guard. He'd been expecting someone big, strong, bulky, with muscles the size of his head. One of those teenaged bodybuilders. Hell, maybe even a buzzcut.

Peter Parker has _none_ of that.

He's small, probably smaller than Harley, with dark brown hair that falls over his forehead and curls around the base of his neck. His suit is just _slightly_ too big for him, so he can't really tell if he's muscular or not. Honestly, though, Harley doesn't think this kid could tip a scale against him soaking wet. Parker is short, skinny, and so damn _young looking_ that he seems like he should still be in high school.

"You're Parker?" Harley chokes out, wide-eyed. 

Peter nods, nervously wringing his hands. "Yessir."

And that _accent._ Sure, Harley definitely has a thick accent of his own, but he's never heard anything quite like Peter's. It sounds like some version of a Queens accent, but the soft way he pronounces everything and the way he hisses his 's' is completely foreign to his ears. 

"You can just- you can call me Harley," Harley mutters, spinning around in his seat to try and hide the dumbfounded look on his face. "Harley's fine."

"You can go ahead and take a seat," Tony says, gesturing to the spinny chair next to Harley's. 

Peter does as he's told, sitting down and curling his feet around the legs of the chair like a little kid on his first day of preschool. Harley watches as he folds his hands in his lap and turns to face Pepper, worrying at his lip with a vigor that makes him wonder if he's going to start bleeding.

"It's nice to meet you, Mister Parker," Pepper says, extending her hand across the desk. Peter shakes it and flushes yet again.

"Peter's fine, ma'am. Just Peter."

The corners of her eyes wrinkle. "Alright, Peter, are you ready to get started?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Harley turns to look at Tony, who rolls his eyes from his spot against the far wall. He laughs quietly before turning back to Pepper and Peter, eyeing the latter with an air of curiosity that makes its way into the rest of the room.

"So, you're currently out of school," Pepper starts. "You dropped out of high school in eleventh grade?"

Peter's flush gets worse. He ducks his head, clearly ashamed, and nods.

"Can you tell us why?" She prompts.

Another nod. "There was an issue in my family, uh, health-wise. With my guardian. I couldn't afford to go to the school I was at anymore and she couldn't help me enroll in anything else, so it sort of fell by the wayside. I never figured it out on my own."

Harley's not a bad person for being nervous about being protected by someone who didn't finish _high school,_ right? Sure, he's taking a gap year between his first year of college and his second year, but he's going in for _engineering._ If Peter couldn't get through the last two years of high school, should he be taking a job from a royal family?

Harley gives him a cursory glance, taking in the hunch of his shoulders and the curve of his neck, before turning back to a silent Pepper and motioning for her to keep moving.

"You're trained in martial arts?"

Peter perks up at that. "Yes, ma'am, taekwondo and krav maga. I've been training for about ten years now."

"And you have good reviews from presidential figures in other countries, celebrities, that sort of thing?"

"I've never let anyone get hurt on my watch."

She nods, clearly satisfied with his answer. That's a good track record, squeaky clean and everything, but Harley _can't get over the high school thing._

"If you were hired for the position, would you be able to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?" Tony asks, piping up from his spot in the corner. "You'd be fine with living in the tower?"

Even more of the tension in Peter's shoulders bleeds away. "Yessir. I'd have to have about four hours a night to myself, but that's early morning stuff. Eleven at night to three in the morning?"

Pepper and Tony meet eyes and nod simultaneously. "I don't see how that would be a problem," the latter says.

They're actually considering hiring a kid for the job. A nineteen-year-old dropout with questionable work hours and enough nervous energy to power Stark Tower. To protect _Harley Keener-Stark,_ a twenty-year-old mechanical engineering major.

Harley looks back and forth between his guardians, watching as they seem to carry out a silent conversation. They're going to consult him, right? They're going to acknowledge him? Let him make the final decision?

"How soon can you move in?" Pepper asks, smiling brightly at Peter, who grins right back with all of his teeth. 

"As soon as you need me to, ma'am."

\- ♜ -

They schedule a move-in date for the next day, and Harley feels like he's going to throw up.

He doesn't even know why- Peter seems like a perfectly nice guy, he doesn't throw up any visible red flags, and despite his lack of education, he speaks cleverly and knows how to hold a good conversation with Pepper and Tony. Logically, there is absolutely no reason for Harley to dislike him. 

_That's_ why it's making him so _damn nervous._

Maybe it's something about the way his personality swings back and forth like a pendulum. He switches back between nervous, stuttering, and overly-respectful, and disproportionately _confident._ Something about him feels very artificial, maybe even forced, and he doesn't understand what it is.

And then there's the thing with his late-night hours off; he can't just be using them for hanging around and not having to do any work, because that just doesn't make any sense. Harley thinks of himself as an excellent judge of character, and even if he hasn't quite gotten a hit on Peter's, his new bodyguard doesn't seem like the sort of guy to just _hang around_ for a few hours every night, especially if he'd specifically requested them.

Harley thinks he might be a drug runner, even if it doesn't seem like his thing. Part of reading people is knowing that sometimes they don't end up being who you expected them to be- he knows this, so why is he doubting himself?

 _Maybe because Peter Parker isn't a drug runner,_ his subconscious whispers.

He doesn't like his subconscious very much. It uses logic to fight his wonderful ideas, and he absolutely doesn't need that kind of negativity in his life.

So Peter Parker, possible drug runner and definitely suspicious, moves into Stark Tower on a Wednesday- the day after his interview which, Harley thinks, is a bit rushed and maybe even a rash decision on Pepper and Tony's part. 

He watches from his window in the penthouse as they unload the car that had been carrying Peter's things. His blinds are drawn, even though he knows there's no way they can see him from the street, and he holds them open with his index and middle fingers. Squints through them like Jim from The Office, except he isn't smiling.

No, he's _definitely_ not smiling.

Why hadn't he just chosen one of the other candidates? Sure, most of them were terrifying and even more suspicious than Peter, and the others would end up getting him killed within two or three days, but at least then he wouldn't be driven so _insanely nuts_ by whatever's happening.

God, and Harley can just _hear_ the crazy. What is he _doing?_ Peter's just going to do his job, protecting Harley, because he has given him _absolutely no reason_ to be so damn paranoid.

He needs to calm down and give the poor guy some time to settle in.

Maybe he'll actually find a reason to freak out.

So he watches from his perch at the window and tries to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach when Peter, who seems even smaller than he had the day before (probably because you're on the twentieth floor of a tower, dumbass), steps out of the car.

He doesn't have a lot of luggage, just two suitcases and what looks like a cardboard box. He'd probably left the rest of his belongings back at his apartment- after all, this probably won't be a permanent arrangement. _Yeah,_ Harley thinks, _that's it._

They disappear from view, then, Happy dragging one of the suitcases out of sight and Peter following him with his box and the second suitcase. Harley leans back in his seat, lets the blinds snap shut, and closes his eyes.

Peter will probably be set up on the employee floor, with the rest of the live-in staff. It's a nice place- Harley's been there a few times, and it's probably better than your average New York apartment. That means they won't interact much when he's not working (which, granted, will be most of the time).

So it's going to be a tolerable situation. Definitely tolerable, maybe even enjoyable.

All good.

There's nothing to be worried about.

Harley spends the rest of the afternoon in relative silence, just the way he likes it. Days like these have always been his favorite- no paparazzi, nobody being surprised or excited to see him, fewer expectations, less pressure. He's alone in his quarters with his guitar, his bookcase, his television, and himself. 

It's times like these where he really understands what people mean when they say that being alone isn't the same as being lonely.

And Harley knew loneliness like an old friend, had known it since he was a kid. It was common knowledge that he wasn't Pepper and Tony's biological kid- people brought that up way too often. His mother, Macy Keener, had worked for Pepper's business before she'd married Tony. Harley had known her since he'd been so little he couldn't walk; sometimes, it seemed like she was more of a mother to him than Macy had ever been.

She'd gotten sick when he'd turned ten, but it hadn't been the sort of sickness you could cure or the kind you went to a hospital for. It had happened after his father had left, leaving Harley, Abby, and Macy to care for themselves in a world that seemed like it was stacked against them. Harley hadn't understood then, no matter how many times Pepper told him that there wasn't anything they could do but to give her time and love.

He understood now.

He had been through the same thing when Pepper and Tony, deciding that Macy was no longer fit to take care of her children, had adopted Harley and sent Abby to live with Pepper's sister in Rhode Island.

He _knew_ loneliness, knew it in the way that only someone who's experienced it intimately can.

_But that's all over now._

Bathed in warm orange light, Harley takes a deep breath and rolls over in bed, opening his eyes to stare hazily at the sun through the bay window. It's beautiful in ways words can't explain, and if he could paint it, he would probably try.

_This isn't lonely._

He would've been happy to have stayed like that for hours, even as the night wore into itself and everyone started to settle in. But, of course, interruption comes in the form of a knock on the door.

It's soft in a way that Harley knows is familiar. He just can't place it- Happy knocks loudly, Tony likes to tap out patterns, and Pepper speaks to make herself known. But he isn't thinking, enveloped in that warm light, so he just hops out of bed and opens the door.

And, because he isn't thinking, he isn't even _remotely_ prepared for the sight of Peter Parker in an awfully nerdy science shirt and a pair of worn jeans, wringing his hands in the same nervous way he had during the interview.

And, because he isn't prepared, he doesn't think before he blurts out a harsh, "What the _hell_ are you doing here?".

Peter flinches back visibly, ducking into himself, and Harley actually feels a pang of guilt in his gut. He opens his mouth to apologize- really, to try and say _anything_ that won't make this worse- but Peter cuts him off, fiddling with his fingers at a speed that makes Harley dizzy. 

"I- uh, I'm sorry, sir," Peter whispers in that soft Queens accent of his, rocking back on his heels. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm set up in the room next to yours-" he jerks a thumb to the left- "and that, if you need me, you can always ask."

Harley, the dumbass he is, doesn't say anything. Peter's anxious rocking quickens to the point where Harley reaches across the threshold of his door and plants his hands on his shoulders, holding him still as gently as he can so he can have a second to think.

Honestly, though, how is he supposed to recover from that?

"Why'd they put you up here?"

_That's probably not a good start._

Peter bites his lip, looks down at his feet (still in those awful black converse), and shrugs. "I don't know. I'm just where they told me to be," he says.

"That's- uh-" _smooth._ "That's nice."

Silence. Brown curls bob as he nods, sniffs, and carefully shrugs out of Harley's grasp.

"That's all I wanted to say."

"Okay."

And with that, Peter turns away and makes his way back to his quarters, closing the door behind himself with a gentle _click._ Harley stands there with his mouth open for what seems like forever, trying to process how badly he's managed to already mess up this situation, before he can make himself go back into his room and lie down.

All he really wants to do is sleep and ignore whatever just happened.

Sleep is a long way away.

\- ♜ -

One door down, Peter sits in the chair in the corner of his bedroom, nervously playing with his hair. His phone sits on his left leg, screen dark, but his eyes don't leave it once, ever-dutifully fixed on black glass and scuffed metal.

He doesn't sleep, either.


	2. Pansies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of terminal illnesses, neglect, gun violence at the end (very non-graphic)

_**"My bounty is as boundless as the sea,** _

_**My love as deep; the more I give to thee** _

_**The more I have, for both are infinite."** _

_\- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet -_

_(Act 2, Scene 2)_

\- ♜ -

Peter wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside his window and almost jumps out of his skin, because _this isn't his room_ and that's _not his view_ and he doesn't know where he is. It takes a moment for the events of the day before to come into focus- the interview, the subsequent decision, and his immediate moving-in. It's almost too much to believe; he knows, realistically, that he's here and it's real, but he can't get rid of the idea that he's going to wake up any minute in his grubby old apartment in Queens with a buttload of jobs to work and too much stress to deal with.

But he's not going to wake up. He's here, in Stark Tower with the _actual royal family,_ living rent-free in a bigger room than the entirety of his old place.

He's here and Harley Keener-Stark actually hates him.

That should probably bother him more than it does- his employer, the person set to be in charge of the country, and someone he's going to be around pretty much every waking moment of the day for the foreseeable future can't stand to see his face. 

The sheer animosity in Harley's voice when Peter had knocked on the door had taken him by surprise, that was for sure, and there had been an angry light in his eyes that was impossible to miss and forget. But something about the way that he'd put his hands on Peter's shoulders made it feel like, just maybe, he wasn't as mad as he'd come across as.

Peter keeps feeling the phantom of Harley's palms against his shirt. He doesn't know why- people do that all the time, and it's not like it had hurt him. Harley had just been trying to calm him down before sort-of insulting him again (which wasn't awesome) but he hadn't done anything inherently wrong.

So why does Peter _care_ so much?

He's supposed to be objective with this job. All he has to do is protect Harley and keep up with grocery bills and hospital bills and May's ever-declining health until he can pay everything off, and then it'll be okay. He can quit once he's made enough to take care of his last remaining family.

Still, he can already feel some sort of connection to this- a pull toward Harley and Tony and Pepper, despite their being above his class by bounds upon bounds. He wants to be a part of them, wants to be with them for some weird reason- he probably has a complex or something that has to do with unhealthy attachments, what with the number of family members he's lost.

Peter's just going to have to accept that this is a _very_ temporary arrangement. His priority is, as always, May.

He has to remember that. Well, in the long run, at least. The only thing he has to remember right now is the fact that, because he moved in yesterday, there's no food in his kitchenette and he's going to have to figure that out situation sometime soon.

After all, he won't be a very good bodyguard if he spends the entire time focused on how hungry he is.

The day before, Tony had told him that they've got a communal kitchen on the living floor and he's welcome to use it if he needs to. He's not sure if that's a good idea; Harley's reaction had shown him that, even though he's living on the same floor as the others, he's not the same as them.

But he's hungry, and a hungry Peter is an unfocused Peter. The decision pretty much makes itself- he gets dressed quickly, throwing on the black t-shirt and jeans afforded to him by Happy Hogan and lacing up his old Converse. His apartment keys nestle themselves deep into his front pocket with his phone (never set to vibrate, always ready to ring and tell him if something's wrong).

He doesn't know exactly where the kitchen's supposed to be, not having been given a tour, but he knows that he didn't pass it on the way to his apartment. Peter finds it pretty quickly, tiptoeing past Harley's closed bedroom door and passing three or four doors before his hall leads into an open room with couches and a flatscreen television.

The kitchen is one corridor past the living room, and Peter has to blink a few times to let his eyes adjust. The granite counters are polished to the point of being blinding, reflecting the bright lights above. His kitchen had been about a quarter of the size of this one, cramped and filled with mismatched appliances.

He's nervous to touch just about everything, but he carefully pulls a plate down from the cabinets (has to lift himself up on the counter to reach; they were clearly built for someone Harley's size) and grabs a carton of eggs from the fridge.

It's all organized efficiently, and he has no trouble finding butter, salt, all the stuff he needs to make his breakfast and, just maybe, a little bit of extra in case Harley or someone else walks in and wants some. Humming to himself in the silence, Peter lights the stove and cracks the eggs, a small smile on his face as light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

\- ♜ -

Harley wakes up to the same thing he has every day of his life- sunlight, birds singing, the quiet noises of traffic in the streets below. The sheets beneath him are warm and soft and he wants nothing more than to stay exactly where he is until someone bothers to come and get him. There's something about the feeling of a bed in the morning after a long night of sleep that feels right, like a hug from someone you love more than anything in the world.

He knows either Tony or Pepper's going to come and get him eventually- they always do, because _apparently,_ he actually has to be an 'active member of society' even when he has nothing to contribute. _Making appearances is better than doing nothing_ , Pepper always says in that reproachful tone of hers. _You have to at least try._

He'd really prefer not to. But, in the end, he doesn't really have a choice.

The sound of someone stepping carefully outside of his door wakes him up just a little bit more. 

Harley turns his face into his pillow, ready for Tony to bounce his way in and drag him out of his room. The footsteps keep going, though, quiet and gentle, tapping their way down the hall until he can't hear them anymore.

That doesn't sound right.

He lies there for a few more minutes, weighing his options with the air of a man about to go into battle, before sighing and stretching his way out of his bed and into a pair of sweatpants. Harley's feet are louder against the tiles of the hallway, mainly because he doesn't care if anybody hears him.

The footsteps lead to the biggest kitchen on the floor. Harley stops outside of the door, leaning against the doorjamb, and peeks around the corner.

Right away, it feels like the breath's been vacuumed out of his lungs.

Peter, black t-shirt tight against his skin, revealing muscles that had been hidden yesterday by his oversized t-shirt, is standing in front of the stove with the handle of a nonstick pan in his right hand and a spatula in his left. He's stronger than Harley had thought, more stockily built.

And he's making eggs.

Standing in the early-morning light, streams of gold pouring through the window, Peter dances back and forth with quick, precise steps. Harley watches silently from his spot behind the door as he hums to himself (he's so tone deaf, but it sounds _so right_ ) and scrambles his eggs. The reddish highlights in his dark hair gleam with every step he takes. Even from a distance, Harley can see the spray of tan freckles spattered across his cheeks and nose.

He's captivated by this masterpiece of a boy, this painting. Somebody painstakingly crafted him, paid attention to every detail, because things like Peter Parker can't just _happen._

 _He belongs in a museum,_ Harley thinks absently, licking his dry lips as Peter misses the pan with his third egg, drops it on the stovetop, and swears loudly. 

He can't stop the snicker that escapes when Peter, frantically trying to clean up the splattered egg, manages to tip the pan slightly to the side and splashes even more egg onto the countertop. The other boy turns sharply, eyes wide, and jumps back when he sees Harley lurking in the doorway with an evil grin on his face and no shirt on. 

The red flush on his cheeks is nothing if not satisfying.

"Parker," Harley greets, stepping into the kitchen and grabbing a roll of paper towels on his way over to the stove. "Morning."

Peter pointedly avoids looking at his chest (hilarious) and reaches for the paper towels, which he quickly lifts out of the shorter boy's reach. 

"I'll take care of that," Harley says, "since you've already gone to the trouble of makin' breakfast."

He immediately protests, pushing himself up onto his toes. "You don't have to-"

"Ah, ah, ah." He shakes his finger with an infuriating smile, dodging around Peter so easily it's almost pathetic. This is his _bodyguard?_ He's going to _die._ "You can go ahead and finish the eggs while I clean this up so we can eat."

Although he looks like he wants to argue, Peter retakes his spot at the stove and pushes the remaining eggs around the pan. Harley leans down next to him and wipes up the egg (it's a soppy mess, absolutely disgusting, can this boy not cook?) before dumping it into the trash and pulling a pair of forks out of the silverware drawer. 

"How'd you even reach the plates?" Harley asks as Peter finishes the eggs and moves them onto a plate he'd already set out. "You get a ladder or somethin'?"

Peter mutters something under his breath. The back of his neck is flushed a bright pink. Harley smirks and steps closer, pressing up against Peter's back to reach a plate for himself. The flush deepens. 

This is just too much fun.

"Can you say that again for me?"

"I had to climb the counter," Peter mutters. He's infuriatingly still, refusing to react to Harley's closeness, but he's done this before- he's good at it, too. Knows exactly what to do to get a reaction out of people.

Harley laughs, shakes his head, and moves to take a seat at the barstools Tony had ordered without Pepper's permission when they'd first gotten married. Peter follows him, eyebrows furrowed, and sits at his left.

Harley takes one of the two forks and takes a bite of the eggs (maybe he's not an awful cook, just clumsy, because they're actually pretty good). He expects Peter to take the second, but instead, he waits until Harley's going in for his second bite and plucks it right out of his hand.

Turning, shocked, he watches with a half-open mouth as Peter, not once breaking eye contact, scoops up a forkful of eggs and shoves it into his mouth. Chews. Swallows.

_And hands the damn fork back._

"Oh, my God," Harley mutters, staring at the fork in his hand. He's never had anyone _react to his dumb flirting,_ let alone have anyone _flirt back._

Is this flirting? Is Peter flirting with him? Is sharing utensils flirting? Is he supposed to use it? Give it back? Is there a _protocol_ for this?

"Oh, my _God,_ " he says again, flushing even deeper than Peter had when the other boy laughs quietly and snaps up the other fork.

"Sorry, man," Peter giggles quietly. "Too easy."

Too easy. _Too easy?_

 _Oh, hell_ _no,_ Harley thinks, glaring Peter straight in the face and scarfing down the eggs with their dual-use fork. _He can't be out-flirted by a tiny little nerd like Parker. Not happening._

He finishes off the plate quickly and stands to put his dishes away, still watching Peter carefully. Before he loses his nerves and leaves, though, he sticks the fork in his napkin and drops it onto Peter's still-occupied plate.

"The _hell?"_ Peter exclaims, throwing the napkin off of his plate. " _Dude!"_

But Harley's already gone, snickering his way out of the room and into the hallway before Tony and Pepper can walk in and try to figure out what's happening. The last thing he hears before he's out of earshot is that quiet laugh, and the last thing he thinks is _damn._

He can recognize a crush when he sees one, and he's got one on his geeky bodyguard.

\- ♜ -

Harley watches him for the rest of the day, peering around hall corners and library shelves, through windows and the cracks between doors. He doesn't have to go out if he doesn't want to, so he just sort of... stays. Stays in the tower. All day, while Pepper and Tony run errands and attend meetings and do all their royalty shit.

A few days ago, he would've been alone and bored out of his mind. Now, though, he gets to entertain the feelings he has for one Peter Parker, the only human on this earth that he's certain he couldn't score a date with.

Peter just doesn't seem like the sort of person to compromise his job for a relationship. Harley could always be wrong, of course, and that would be great- but that raises the issue of how there's a _really_ big chance that he's straight. 

After all, friends can flirt with each other. Friends can jokingly lead each other on and share utensils.

 _You could just be reading this wrong,_ the voice in his mind whispers. _H_ _e's probably straight. Not interested in you. Doing his job._

Harley's never been terribly secretive about his sexuality, a fact of which the media is very fond. He's gay- very gay, a flaming, raging homosexual, and not at all afraid of talking about it. He's dated men before; famous men, normal men, college students, whatever. He's hooked up. Made out in crowded clubs. Had one night stands and short relationships and never-bothered-to-get-your-number relationships.

They all fizzle out eventually.

He doesn't really care- he's a prince, after all, and eventually, he's going to settle down with somebody who'll either be royalty or part of a government or marrying him for his money. It's his reality, no matter how much it sucks. He might get lucky and fall in love, but in the end, he can't really marry whoever he wants.

There's a set of rules for these things, and dating your work-committed, high-school-dropout, nineteen-year-old bodyguard breaks several of them.

That raises another set of questions- why had Peter never bothered to go back to high school?

Harley watches him in the tower's library, sitting sprawled out on the couch with his favorite book about mechanical theory held just below his eyes as a cover. Peter's been browsing the biochemistry aisle for the last thirty minutes, putting together a sizeable stack of very thick, very confusing-looking books. Harley eyes the stack as it continues to grow with every book an excited Peter adds, tilting slightly to the left every time he bends down or reaches up for another.

Biochemistry isn't light reading, he knows. He had chosen to go for mechanical engineering because it was something he could touch and understand, something with visual representation in his life. Biochem had never once been a viable career option. Harley has some friends in the biochem program at Colombia, though, and he's seen the workload involved.

It's something he could never see himself doing, and Parker hadn't made it through his third year of high school. 

"You like biochem?" he asks as Peter places his stack (it's two feet tall and listing to the right) on the coffee table before taking a seat a few feet to Harley's left.

"Yeah," Peter says, pulling _General, Organic, and Biologic Chemistry (Fifth Edition)_ out of the middle of his haul and opening it to what looks like the middle. "I used to want to go into biochemistry, when I was younger." He hoists the book up to hide his face, but not before Harley sees the sad look on his face. 

"Didn't work out?" Harley asks, even though he knows he shouldn't pry.

"No."

That's a conversation shut-down if Harley's ever heard one. Short, sweet, and to the point.

They lapse into silence, Peter burying his nose in his book, Harley trying to act like he's doing the same. Really though, he's just watching. Watching as peter's brow furrows, as he bites his lower lip, as he reaches up to run his hand through his hair, as he-

"You know, if you want to ask, you can."

Harley blinks, taken aback by the deadpan tone of Peter's voice. "Sorry?"

"I can see you watching me," he says. "I know you want to ask. You can."

He doesn't feel embarrassed very often, but this is one of the few times, because _God,_ he thought he was being discreet. Harley clears his throat and, no longer trying to keep up the farce, puts his book down. 

"I- sorry, man," he stutters. "I didn't mean to-"

Peter marks his spot and places his book on the cushions next to his leg, shaking his head gently. "It's okay."

Pause.

"I didn't finish high school because my aunt got really, really sick," he says. There's a soft sadness in his voice, worn away by time and acceptance, but Harley can hear it nonetheless. He recognizes it, has heard it in his own voice. "She was my guardian, and I didn't have a job, so when she couldn't work anymore I had to decide between my education and paying the bills."

Harley can't imagine that. He knows about what happens to good families in his country, has done charity work to help them, worked in building developments and planned out food drives, but he's never had an honest-to-god conversation with someone who's experienced it.

"I'm sorry," he says for lack of anything better. "That must've been hard."

Peter nods. "It was, for a little while. I had to accept that I was done. That I wasn't going to be able to finish out high school or go to college." He smiles, then, but it's a sad smile. Wistful. "I've been working a few jobs since then. Grocery stores, pharmacies, anyone who'll take me. This," he gestures between himself and Harley, "is the first stable job I've held since I was fifteen."

"Your aunt..."

"May."

 _May Parker._ _May and Peter Parker._

_Macy Keener. Macy and Harley and Abby Keener._

"You paid off her medical bills?" Harley asks, hoping for the answer he knows he's not going to get. Peter just shakes his head, reaching out to pat him on the hand.

"She's been in a coma for three years," he murmurs. "Brain tumors. Oligodendroglioma. They just... kept growing, and eventually-" Peter snaps his fingers sharply. "May shut down."

Harley swallows, throat dry, _knows_ that he's already pried too far and he really shouldn't go any further. Still, there's that looming giant of a question, and he doesn't know what he's going to do if he doesn't know the answer.

"She going to wake up?" 

Shrugging, Peter heaves _General, Organic, and Biologic Chemistry (Fifth Edition)_ back into his lap. "They don't think so. But I can't take her off life support yet. Not ready to let her go, I guess."

Harley understands not knowing how to let people go. "I get it," he says, scooting a bit closer and resting his hand on Peter's shoulder. He looks up, resting the book in his lap, surprise clear in his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. My mom, she had a hard time when me and my sister were little. Tony and Pepper took me in. I had a hard time with it for a few years, struggled with who I was. Whether I was actually supposed to be here."

"I didn't know that."

Peter leans into Harley's arm, and wraps him up into a hug. Harley sits still for a moment, mind racing with too many thoughts to process, before leaning in and resting his free hand on Peter's back.

"Not a lot of people do."

"Thank you for telling me," Peter says, leaning further into the hug with his chin on Harley's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"And I'm sorry about your aunt."

"It's alright." A quiet sniff. "I've made my peace with it."

In a way, Harley's pretty sure he's made his peace with the fact that even a son and a daughter weren't enough to get his mother to pull herself together. That _he_ wasn't enough, and that, in the end, there was nothing he could do to make things better.

Nothing he could do to stay.

But, sometimes, he feels the pressing guilt of losing his mother and sister in one fell swoop. It feels like his fault- he couldn't pull her together, she couldn't pull herself together, they got pulled apart instead.

It had been a lot for a little kid to handle, and Harley? To be honest, he really hadn't.

As if he can feel the racing of Harley's thoughts, Peter, still resting his head on the former's shoulder, tightens his hold just a little bit and pulls him across the last six inches of distance. Their legs are flush up against each other, chests pressed close, and Harley knows that if anybody were to walk into the library right now, he'd have a hard time finding a platonic heterosexual explanation for this.

But nobody walks in, so he doesn't pull away. Neither does Peter, surprisingly- they stay right where they are for what seems like forever, just holding on, two tired boys with trauma and nobody to carry them when they need to be held.

It feels right.

_He feels right._

\- ♜ -

"I wanna go somewhere," Harley says. Peter looks up from his dinner- noodles tossed in a parmesan sauce, made by Harley himself because Tony and Pepper haven't made it back from their daily activities and he didn't want to eat alone. Peter, he's learned, can't make actual food if his life depends on it; his expertise is limited to eggs, toast, and sandwiches.

"Yeah?" Peter asks, eyebrow twitching as he swallows a mouthful of pasta.

"Yeah. Somewhere fun."

"Like what?" He takes another bite, jaw working, and Harley snorts as a noodle pokes out of the corner of his mouth. Peter slurps it down quickly, flushing strawberry red.

He wants to make him blush more often.

"I dunno," Harley shrugs. Takes a sip of his water, thinking. "Dancing? A club? Drinking?"

"I'm underage."

"I mean, so am I."

Peter averts his eyes, bites his bottom lip. Holds it between his teeth. Deep breath in, out, in, out. Sigh. "It's different, Harley. Different for me."

Harley kicks himself. Of course Peter's held to different limitations- this is his _job,_ no matter how much he wants it to be a friendship, and Peter has to be professional and put-together. He can't drink on the job, can't get too distracted, can't be seen messing around with the prince. He thinks of Peter's aunt- May, that's her name. Of how he's the only thing between her and death. Of how his job pays the hospital bills that keep her alive.

"Yeah, I'm- I'm sorry," he mutters. "I forgot."

A small, understanding smile works its way across Peter's face. He puts his fork down (only used by him, not shared) and reaches across the table to pat Harley's hand. 

"Hey, it's okay. Don't worry about it."

Harley wants his hand to stay there, doesn't want the contact to stop, but his bodyguard pulls back and takes a sip of his water. Peter shoots him a conspiratorial look, comically glancing to his left and right, before slipping his hand into his jeans pocket and pulling out a ripped leather wallet.

"But if you wanted to go to a club-" Deft fingers remove a driver's license from the inner pocket, and Peter holds it up with a huge grin. "I've got a fake ID." 

Harley stares at him, silent, eyes wide, before reaching out and plucking the ID from his fingers. He inspects it closely, reading over the information as carefully as he can, and sees that, yes, it's very much fake. Peter Parker, age twenty-two, born in Queens, New York.

"I can't decide what I believe less," he laughs, handing the ID back to its 'rightful' owner. "The fact that my goody-goody bodyguard has a fake ID or the fact that you think you could pass for twenty-two."

"I'm not _that_ much of a goody-goody," Peter retorts. "I look older than _you."_

"In what universe? I could pass for three or four years older than I am if I wanted to. You have a baby face, Parker."

"I do _not."_

"You look seventeen."

_"No."_

"You can't deny it."

Their playful banter continues for a few minutes in a back-and-forth tennis game type of conversation. It ends when Peter starts laughing so hard he can barely speak, leaning over the table and holding his stomach like he's been shot. Tears are leaking out of the corner of his eyes, and Harley watches, enamored, as he wipes them away and takes a deep breath.

He doesn't ever want him to stop laughing.

"I don't have any clothes to wear," Peter says once he's managed to stop laughing. "Not to a club, at least."

"That's fine." Harley stands, takes their dishes, and drops them into the sink with a quiet clatter. "I've probably got some stuff your tiny ass can fit in."

"My ass is not tiny!"

"What ass?"

"Oh my God, _Harley-"_

\- ♜ -

Peter does, apparently, fit in some of Harley's clothing. They ransack his closet for what seems like hours and eventually come up with a pair of tight-fitting black jeans, boots, and a green button-up that looks _way_ too good on Peter. The jeans are a little bit too big, just like Harley had expected, but Peter looks _good._ He really does.

They head out in Harley's car, a black BMW that Tony had bought him for his eighteenth birthday. Peter he learns, can't drive for _shit_ and never bothered to try and learn because his family had to sell May's old car when he'd been younger. He sits in the passenger seat, phone clutched tight between his fingers, starting out of the window.

"I can't drink anything when we get there," he reminds Harley, suddenly all business. "And I've gotta pay attention to what's going on around us."

"I know," Harley says. 

"And you have to stay where I can see you. Tell me if you're going somewhere so I can stay with you."

"I know."

"Please don't sneak off or-"

 _"Peter,"_ Harley snaps, turning a little bit too sharply into a parking lot outside his favorite club. "I _know._ God, calm down."

Peter's quiet in the passenger seat. He ducks his head, fiddling nervously with his phone, just like he had during the interview and when Harley had gotten angry with him the day before.

He needs to be more careful with his temper. He gets angry way too easily, and Peter isn't really the type of person who seems like he can take regular outbursts.

"I'm sorry," Harley says, turning the car off and trying to force down the guilt in his stomach. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's okay." _It doesn't sound okay._ "I'm not trying to ruin your fun, you know. I'm just doing my job."

And Peter sounds so genuinely sorry that the guilt surges up, because Harley _knows_ that he's just trying to take care of himself and his family and there's nothing he can do about the guidelines set in place. It's not his fault.

In the end, Harley has to remember that this is work for Peter. He might be enjoying it, but he's still being paid to protect him.

Harley is his job, not his friend.

The club is full of strobing lights, glowing in every color of the rainbow as they sweep over the large crowd of people. Peter and Harley get in without a hassle, the former glued close to the latter's arm. In the short time they've known each other, Harley has never considered Peter to be a terribly threatening person, but now? Shoulder to shoulder in a big group of people? He can practically feel the harsh gaze of Peter's eyes as he assesses their surroundings.

They make their way through the crowd of dancers to the bar, where Harley orders some kind of fruity drink with barely any alcohol. Peter stands beside him with a glass of water in his hand, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"You can let loose a little!" Harley shouts over the pulsing music, downing his drink in two large gulps. "Come on, Parker!"

Peter smiles gently and takes a sip of his water, shaking his head. "Nope. Doing my job."

He huffs and settles back into his seat, jabbing Peter in the side. His finger bumps against something hard- metal, it feels like. Harley pokes him again, brow furrowed, and lowers his voice.

"You've got a gun in the waistband of your jeans."

Peter nods, expression neutral. "I do."

"Why?"

"I've got a concealed carry permit, Harley, chill. I'm supposed to protect you."

"You do _martial arts."_

Peter chuckles and sits down beside Harley, patting him on the knee. "Trust me, man, if I'm up against an active shooter and I have to take care of you? I'm not going to try and get close to him, I'm going to shoot him."

"And you can actually use a gun?" Harley asks dubiously, eying the subtle bump at Peter's hip. "You don't seem like someone who should be able to use a gun."

"Part of my appeal." A shrug. "And, yes. I'm a good shot."

Harley wants to stay and interrogate him for a _long time,_ wants to pick him apart and figure out everything there is to know about him, but he can't hide the fact that he finds Peter to be _extremely attractive_ and the fact that he can shoot a gun and protect himself isn't helping his case. Thanks to the low lights and bright colors, Harley's sure Peter can't see the light blush on his cheeks, but there's no way he's going to risk being found out. It would be insanely embarrassing, and he gets the vibe that Peter could be insufferable if he wanted to.

"I'm gonna go dance," he says, placing his empty glass on the counter. Then, even though he knows the answer, "Come with?"

Peter smiles again, that sweet little grin of his, and shakes his head sheepishly. "I'm going to watch for a little while. Maybe later?"

Well, it's better than he was expecting. Harley shrugs and nods before turning to make his way into the throng of people, brushing past tightly packed bodies until he's securely tucked away in the crowd. Everyone around him is smiling and laughing and having so much fun that he can't help but to join them, bouncing up and down on his toes in a place where nobody can recognize him.

The lights are blurry, that special kind of buzz when you're hovering on the edge of tipsy. Harley loses himself in the music, the people, the blues and purples and reds of the strobing lights overhead. The song playing is one of those pulsing electric-sounding club anthems that you can't really place but somehow recognize. Harley hasn't done this in a long time- hasn't felt like this in a long time.

Natasha, Steve, all the rest of his bodyguards had been all-business adults who didn't understand the fact that Harley was still a kid and wanted to act like one. They'd been nice, sure, but they'd been strict and the only way he'd been able to do things like this had been if he'd snuck away.

But Peter, nineteen and mature beyond both his and Harley's years, understood. 

And he would never know how much Harley appreciated it.

Time blends together, minutes into minutes, until he no longer knows how long he's been dancing with the crowd. He doesn't feel like Harley- in fact, he doesn't really _feel._ He's high on nothing, on being happy and relaxed for the first time in what feels like years. He hasn't enjoyed himself like this since before Natasha. He wants it to last forever, never wants to stop doing this. Never wants to leave.

But, apparently, the universe actually hates him, because someone's grabbing his elbow and pulling him out of the crowd so quickly that he can't even fight it. 

Harley turns to glare down at Peter, ready to tear him a new one for interrupting him, but the look on Peter's face stops him in his tracks. He's not smiling, not lively- this is a side of him that Harley hasn't seen yet. The line of his lips is set and angry, and- _oh, God-_ he has a hand on the now-revealed butt of his gun.

"Peter?" Harley asks, cursing how his voice shakes. "Is-"

"We're leaving," Peter says harshly, pulling him toward the exit. "Something's wrong."

"What?"

"Something's wrong," he says again, voice clipped and angry. "There are people in here with weaponry and-"

_Pop, pop, pop._

Gunshots ring off into the air. Harley nearly gets whiplash as Peter whirls around, gun out and held in front of his face, pushing Harley behind him and quite literally shielding him with his body.

"Stay behind me!" He barks, swiveling around with his gun held stiff. "Everyone, _get on the ground."_

The clubgoers follow his directions as quickly as they can, clearly recognizing the authority in his voice. Harley can tell that Peter's trying to find the source of the gunshots, but his heart is beating too quickly for him to think clearly, because it's _his fault that they're here and it's his fault if he gets hurt his fault his fault his fault-_

"Harley," Peter murmurs, still turned away. "It's going to be okay, alright? I want you to crouch down behind me."

"Peter-"

"Do as I say. Get as close to the ground as you can and stay there. Don't move, don't try to run. Just stay still."

Harley wants to argue, but he can hear in Peter's voice that it isn't going to get him anywhere. He lowers himself to the ground as slowly as he can, hands flat against the cold floor, and ducks his head.

"There we go," Peter says, voice calm and soothing. "It's okay, Harley. It's okay."

Another gunshot pops off, hitting one of the strobe lights overhead, and Peter twitches to the right faster than Harley can track his movement. This time, the gunshots come from _him,_ loud and sharp. Harley covers his ears and holds his breath. Closes his eyes.

_Pop._

_Pop._

_Poppoppoppop-_

There's the sound of a body hitting tile. Harley's eyes flash open as he braces himself, afraid of what he's going to see, afraid of how Peter could be dead in front of him.

But Peter's still standing solidly in front of his spot on the ground. He turns swiftly and pulls Harley to his feet, blocking his vision as he tries to find the body.

"Don't look," he mutters, leading him toward the exit. "Don't look."

Harley _really_ wants to look, and Peter can clearly tell, because he gently wraps his fingers around his bicep and tugs him through the door as quickly as he can and into the parking lot, where ambulances and police cars and Harley's parents are waiting.

Even as Pepper and Tony sweep him away from Peter's steady half-embrace, Harley watches him like a hawk, looking for some kind of sign that he's having _some sort_ of emotional reaction to this. He shouldn't be okay right now, he should be falling apart like Pepper or angry like Tony or shocked like Harley, but he's just _standing there_ on his own and handing the gun over to a police officer and _waiting-_

Harley breaks away from Pepper's grip, racing across the parking lot, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as sirens wail all around him and a paramedic tries to pull him away to check on him.

And then, everything goes quiet as he _slams_ into a stock-still Peter and wraps him up into a hug. The flannel he'd borrowed smells like Peter now, looks like him, and he can see tears in Peter's eyes now that they're close.

"Thank you," Harley chokes, leaning down to bury his face in the crook of his neck. " _Thank you, Peter."_


	3. Thyme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Chadwick Boseman. Rest in peace and power, you've changed so many lives in such a short amount of time. Thank you.
> 
> tw: gun violence, panic attacks, moderately-graphic nightmare, mention of terminal illnesses, cliffhanger ;)

**"Like** _**as the waves make towards the pebbled shore** _

_**So do our minutes hasten to their end** _

_**Each changing place with that which goes before,** _

_**In sequent toil all forwards do contend."** _

_\- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 60 -_

\- ♜ -

Peter knows they're in trouble before they even get out of the car, and when he realizes what a massive mistake this entire night has been, he wants to cry.

Of course, he doesn't- or maybe he does and just manages to hide it, keeping his eyes fixed determinedly on the window of the car so that nobody notices. If anybody sees the glassy look in his eyes, they don't say anything, which he definitely appreciates.

Tony and Pepper, despite the fact that they were both rapidly devolving into hysterics, had insisted that Peter stay with them. He had squished into the backseat of Happy Hogan's car, pressing himself up against the door so that Harley, who was openly crying on the other side of the car, had enough space to calm himself down.

That single gunshot from his Glock had been so small. Just a little pop, a single bullet. But it had been enough to send the shooter plummeting to the ground.

"You think he's dead?" Harley sniffs from the other seat. His eyes are red, bloodshot. Unabashedly crying.

Peter turns to face him, schooling his expression as carefully as he can to avoid showing the way he's trembling. Nods.

He had aimed for the head, and the bullet had hit home. Peter hadn't seen the wound, hadn't checked to make sure, but he knows he hit where he'd aimed.

He doesn't miss. 

"Are you sure?"

Peter sighs and nods again, blinking the tears out of his eyes. "I'm sure."

Harley doesn't seem to know how to take the hint that Peter doesn't want to talk about it. He turns further, angling his body toward the center of the car, and reaches a shaking hand out like he wants to touch him.

He doesn't, though.

"How do you know?" Harley asks stubbornly. "How do you know you didn't miss?"

"Kiddo," Tony says warningly from beside Pepper in the middle aisle. Peter meets his eyes in Happy's mirror and can immediately tell that he knows.

Tony knows.

"Because I _know_ , Harley." 

Peter can't keep the snappy tone out of his voice. This is the first time Harley's ever seen someone die, and it's a shock; Peter still remembers the blood on Ben's chest in that alley nearly half a decade later. But it doesn't get easier, and even though he's killed before- only once, when he'd been protecting a secretary of state or something- it doesn't get easier.

"Peter-"

" _Listen,"_ Peter hisses, jerking around to glare Harley straight in the eyes. "I know because I _aimed for his head._ Okay? I _aimed for it_ and I _hit it_ and he's _dead._ So just leave it alone."

The hurt in Harley's eyes is palpable. Peter regrets his tone instantly, but he's not about to take it back, because _he's right and he knows it._ Harley should've known better than to push him after he'd _literally just killed_ for the second time in his life.

He's _nineteen._

How in the world has his life come to this?

Harley seems to get the message. He swivels so that he's staring out the window on his side, assuming Peter's position from earlier, and doesn't turn around again for the rest of the ride. Every time they pass under a streetlight, Peter can see the blond boy's reflection in the glass. He's crying, tear tracks drawn down his tired face, blue eyes dull and lifeless. His shoulders are shaking.

Peter watches him for a moment or two. The guilt in his chest is growing at a rate that he can't keep up with, and he doesn't know whether he feels worse for shooting the gunman or snapping at Harley after he'd just seen someone he'd considered a friend shoot another human being. He reaches out hesitantly, lifting his hand from the warm leather seats, and places it gently on Harley's thigh. 

Feather-light touch. Gentle, just like May had been after he'd watched Ben bleed out. Gentle, just like his hand in a catatonic May's, afraid to wake her and simultaneously hoping she'll react.

Harley twitches under his fingers. For a moment, Peter thinks he might be shaken off, and he starts to pull back. Before he can move, though, Harley's fingers come to rest on top of his.

Peter relaxes and lets himself cry quietly in the back of his boss's car.

Pepper practically has to drag Harley onto the sidewalk when they arrive at the tower. She leads him inside, arm resting around his shoulders, and it's only then that Peter realizes he's still wearing his flannel shirt and jeans. He looks to Tony nervously, silently asking for permission to get out, and when the older man nods, follows Pepper and Harley into the building.

He feels like a lost puppy, trailing behind the royal family with his head hung low and marks left behind on his cheeks from tears. Like a little child.

He hasn't been a child in a long time.

Tony catches up to him at a light jog, purposefully slowing down to match Peter's pace once he's reached him. Peter tenses, expecting a verbal lashing, and bites his bottom lip so hard it stings. 

"Sir," he says quietly, refusing to look Tony in the eye, "I understand if you're going to fire me. I acted in blatant disregard for the prince's safety and removed him from the premises without permission-"

"God, kid," Tony sighs. He stops Peter with a hand on his arm, looking down at him with an unidentifiable gleam in his eyes. "Can I hug you?"

That wasn't anywhere near what Peter had been expecting. He squints up at Tony, drawing blood from his lip, before nodding hesitantly. 

Before he can blink, he's being pulled into a tight hug, Tony's arms around his shoulders. He smells like cologne- like Ben's cologne, Peter realizes, and the familiar scent is enough to bring him to tears. He melts into the hug, relaxing with his head on Tony's shoulder, and shivers with the invisible weight that seems to fall off of his shoulders.

"You've done that before," Tony says. "Haven't you?"

Peter just nods helplessly. His boss seems to deflate, shaking his head tiredly, and tightens his grip just a little bit.

"Alright," he murmurs. "Alright. Let's get you to bed."

"I'm not fired?" Peter asks. His voice is small, lending even more to Tony's realization that he's managed to hire an actual child to protect his own actual child. Peter is a _child_ who has killed to protect people.

"No. You're not fired, kid."

Peter sags in his arms, gives a full-body sob, and murmurs something that sounds like a _thank you._ Tony closes his eyes and takes a moment to gather himself up, pushing back the outpouring of anger and sadness that's slowly filling his body, before pulling away just enough to slip his arm over Peter's shoulder and lead him toward the elevator.

It's hard to get a full-blown teenager into bed; Tony should know, he's been trying to regulate Harley's curfew since he'd come into their family. Peter, however, is an entirely different problem.

He's crying too hard to hear anything Tony tells him to do. He's not moving quickly, not thinking clearly, not lucid enough to do anything. Tony doesn't want a lawsuit on his hands, so he just takes Peter's shoes off and sticks the kid in his bed, tucking him under the covers with all the nervous energy of a new parent. Peter's still full-on sobbing when Tony closes his door.

He feels bad about leaving him alone like this, but he's got a child of his own to take care of.

Pepper and Harley are in Harley's room, conveniently a door down the hallway. Tony lets himself in and sits at the edge of the bed with Pepper. Harley's halfway under his sheets and murmuring nonsense into his pillow, red eyes very much open. Unlike Peter, he seems to be thinking clearly- he just isn't making sense.

Harley does this sometimes. He slips into halfway-catatonic states when he's upset and only he can understand what he's saying. It's frustrating, because there's no translating his upset murmurs. All Tony and Pepper have ever been able to do for him is listen and act like they know what he means.

This time, though, Harley pushes himself into a sitting position when he realizes that Tony's there. He turns, tilting his head, and narrows his eyes in thinly-veiled anger.

"You can't fire Peter," he says. "It was my fault that we were there at all. I pressured him until he agreed to take me." A pause. "So if you're gonna blame anyone, blame me."

Tony sighs and shakes his head. "I didn't fire Peter. He's in his room, right next door, about to fall asleep."

"Oh."

"And we aren't mad at you," Pepper says, meeting Tony's eyes sadly. "We would've appreciated knowing, but we understand that this was probably a fluke. You couldn't have known it was going to happen."

"Oh," Harley says again, clearly dumbfounded.

"All that matters is that you're both safe," Tony says. "You weren't hurt and, in the end, Peter did what he was supposed to do."

"He killed someone." Harley absentmindedly reaches up to twirl a blond curl between his fingers, eyes far away. "For me. He killed someone for me."

"As he was supposed to."

"I didn't want him to."

Pepper, clearly holding back tears, gently places her hand on Harley's cheek and brushes a tear away. "He didn't want to, either, Harley. But his job was to protect _you."_

"He protected everyone else in that club," Tony murmurs. "He did the right thing."

"I don't understand," Harley says, voice thick with tears. "I don't understand why he didn't shoot him somewhere else."

"He shot that man in the head because, in the end, that was what he had to do to ensure your safety." Tony brushes a curl out of his son's face. "I would have done the same thing."

"You'd never kill anyone."

"To protect you? Yeah, Harley. I would. Over and over again if it meant taking care of you."

A tear slips down Harley's cheek at that, and he sinks back into his pillow. Pepper and Tony stand together, finding each other's hands in what feels like an immeasurable amount of space, before turning the lights off and walking out.

"Please don't," Harley says quietly, just before they close the door. "If you ever get the chance, don't."

Tony walks away without another word, leaving Pepper in the hallway between Peter and Harley's doors. He doesn't say anything.

He can't make promises he won't keep.

\- ♜ -

_He's walking, slowly but surely, through a dark street surrounded by dark buildings under a dark, starless sky. There are no people, no streetlights, no sound. Nothing familiar, but, somehow, he recognizes this avenue so intimately that he wants to throw up._

_This is the street form his nightmares, the street he sees on bad nights where he can't control his tears. Peter wants to stop walking because he knows what happens next, but there's an invisible force driving him forward. No matter how hard he tries to wake up, he keeps moving._

_The dark sky above him starts to blink in a dazzling array of colors. Every shade of purple and blue flashes across its surface, nebulas of stars and galaxies filling the sky like a fireworks show._

_Gunshots._

_Pop._

_Pop._

_Pop._

_Peter's still walking, steadily moving forward, when a body blinks into being in front of him. Ben, eyes wide, staggers toward Peter and falls to his knees. His white button-up shirt is painted with red blood. It leaks from his lips, from his chest, dripping onto the ground at Peter's feet. Each drop explodes into a shower of sparks when it hits the pavement. With every drop, a star appears in the sky._

_Peter stands stock-still as Ben collapses to the ground, falling into his puddle of stars and lying still as a stone. He wants nothing more than to move closer, to say something, to do anything, but dream-Peter can't move. He's rooted in place, staring at the body of his uncle._

_Just like he had been all those years ago._

_Something in his chest comes undone, and suddenly, he's able to speak. Pink flower petals spill from his lips, light as feathers, as he calls for May. Ben. Anyone who will listen._

_But nobody's there to listen to him._

_As he watches, Ben's body shrinks and his hair grows out until, instead of his uncle, Peter is staring down at May. Petals build up in a pile at his feet, covering his shoes, as May coughs once, twice, and her chest grows still. When he cries, no tears come from his tear ducts. Instead, more petals join those at his feet. These ones are blue. Baby blue, like the blanket Peter had carried around until he'd been ten years old._

_The body morphs one last time, and the amount of guilt he feels is honestly too much to bear, because this one is the worst of all._

_Harley, eyes blue and empty, lies face-up on the asphalt, staring into Peter's face with an expression that looks much too close to accusation for a dead person. A trail of stars leaks from the corner of his mouth, drips into the street, forms a puddle that mixes with Ben's blood._

_The petals are at his waist now. They're rising too quickly to be proportionate with his tears, growing exponentially every second that Peter doesn't move. His heart races as he tries to pull his feet up from the ground, but the petals weigh him down like cement blocks._

_He can't breathe. They're over his shoulders now, rising up over his neck, up to his chin, his ears, covering his head, stone upon stone upon stone and he **can't breathe he can't breathe he can't-**_

Peter shoots up in his bed and throws the covers away from his legs in a single fluid motion, pulling a deep breath of cold, clean air into his lungs. He waves his arms frantically, trying to push the petals away from his face so that he doesn't breathe them in, only to realize that there are no petals- he isn't dreaming anymore, and he can breathe. 

Ben is still dead.

May is still comatose.

Harley is still-

_Harley._

Heart jackhammering against his ribcage, Peter throws himself out of bed and races out of his room. Harley's door is closed, and when he tries the handle, he realizes that it's locked. He has to be okay, though, right? Peter hadn't made sure he was safe, hadn't checked to see if he and Pepper had made it upstairs.

He slams his fist into the wood above the doorknob so hard that the entire door rattles on its frame. Once, twice, three times, crying harder and harder with every impact. Just before he hits it a fourth time, the door opens and there he is, standing in all his tired, crying glory.

He's alive.

Harley looks tired, hair mussed, dark circles under his eyes bringing contrast to his pale skin. He looks like such a different person than he had that morning, when he had confidently flirted with Peter and Peter had flirted right back.

He feels like a different person than he was, even though it's been less than twelve hours since he'd playfully stolen Harley's fork.

"Peter?" Harley asks, groggy eyes staring down at him. It's enough to bring another wave of tears on.

Peter crumples into himself, gripping his stomach with both arms like he's being torn apart. Harley's expression changes from confusion to devastated understanding, and he's reaching down to take Peter by the arm and leading him into his room. Peter knows that he probably shouldn't follow, but he doesn't have the willpower to fight.

Harley helps him sit down on his bed, flipping the bedside lamp on. It casts a golden glow across his room, and Peter sees that there's a half-empty box of tissues on the table next to his phone. 

The blond sits down next to him, crossing his legs beneath himself, and wordlessly offers Peter a tissue. He takes it and wipes the tears away from his cheeks. They're replaced just as quickly as he'd managed to get rid of them.

"You wanna talk 'bout it?" Harley asks. His accent is more distinct with usual, probably because he's tired, and Peter might find it a little bit attractive if he wasn't so achingly tired of everything. He shakes his head, pursing his lips to keep from crying, and Harley nods in understanding.

"You're still in your clothes," he notes, and Peter looks down at himself to see that, yes, he's still wearing Harley's button-up and jeans. He winces and nods self-consciously.

"Sorry."

"Nah," Harley mutters, pushing himself up from the bed and crossing the room to root through the drawers of his dresser. "C'mon, you should change."

"I've got clothes in my room." _But I don't want to go back alone._

He pulls a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the drawer and tosses them at Peter's chest, shrugging him off. "That's okay, you can use these for now."

Harley turns around as Peter changes into the new clothes, folding up the old ones and placing them on the bedside table. He turns back only when Peter says he's finished, sitting back down on the bed and patting the mattress beside him.

"You wanna cuddle?"

_Maintain a professional relationship. Maintain a professional relationship. Maintain a professional relation-_

"Yeah," Peter croaks, hugging his middle. "Yeah, sure."

"Lights on or off?" Harley asks gently, rubbing his eyes.

"Off."

He reaches over to flick the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. The bed squeaks as Harley lies down on his side and stretches his arm out, beckoning with open hands for Peter to lie down with him.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Peter lowers himself to the mattress gingerly. He's instantly enveloped by the feeling of Harley, the smell of him, _him,_ as the taller boy wraps his arms around Peter's chest and pulls him close.

It takes a moment for him to relax, stiff against Harley's chest. He's trying to breathe, forcing air in and out of his lungs with all the force of a truck slamming through a blockade. Absentmindedly, he realizes that he may or may not be on the verge of a panic attack; the tightness in his lungs is a dead giveaway of that.

"Hey," Harley whispers, gently turning Peter over so they're having each other and pulling him closer. "It's okay. It's _okay."_

Peter curls his fingers into Harley's t-shirt and takes a deep breath. 

"In, out. In, out. There we go."

In the darkness, he can't see Harley's face, but he knows for some reason that he's smiling. Harley curls closer to him, tucking Peter's head under his chin, and shortens his breaths until their breathing is synchronized. 

Eventually, Peter manages to work himself into a soothing rhythm, listening to Harley's heartbeat as it steadily echoes in the silence. He feels his eyelids grow heavy, heavier, until he can't muster up the strength to keep them open.

"You're safe," Harley murmurs, and Peter drifts off to sleep.

He doesn't dream this time.

\- ♜ -

Peter wakes up alone.

It shouldn't surprise him as much as it does- after all, Harley is in no way obligated to stay with him. He doesn't have to wait for him to wake up. There are other things to be done and, if the sun streaming through the blinds is a giveaway, he's been asleep for far longer than he should've been.

But he's _so tired._ The events of last night keep replaying themselves in his head, over and over again- a gunshot, a spray of blood in the air like water from a fountain, and a crumpled body.

He doesn't want to think about it. If he gets out of bed, starts the day, faces himself, he won't be able to divert his thoughts. 

Peter's played this game before. It's the day after the storm, wreckage strewn around his brain, buildings damaged, relief efforts starting up. The entire day is going to be spent being tired and angry and a metaphorical smoothie of other emotions. 

Nope. Not happening.

Peter turns onto his side in the empty bed, eyes scanning over Harley's room absently as he weighs his options. Staying in the room _alone_ might be the next worst thing to getting up and dealing with his issues; his thoughts are loud and they tend to creep in right when he isn't expecting, right when he _doesn’t know how to fight them._

How can you fight an enemy when you don’t know when the fight starts?

Rolling over again, he slaps an open-palmed hand against his eyes, groaning out a yawn that seems to tear its way out of his chest. He can feel the exhaustion eating at him.

Peter just wants to _go back to sleep._

The door creaks open slowly, the sound of crackling wood echoing through the quiet room. Peter yawns a second time and cranes his neck to see Harley walking across his room in all of his tired glory with a mug of coffee in each hand.

“Mornin’, Sleepin’ Beauty,” Harley says. He grins, baring the pearly whites of his teeth, and sits down on the edge of the bed. The ceramic bottoms of the mugs clink against each other as he sets them down carefully beside his lamp.

An unfamiliar feeling fills Peter’s stomach as he smiles back, warm and fuzzy and honestly not a bad thing. 

Scratch that- it isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’d felt the same thing for Michelle. Doesn’t he like girls, though?

“Morning,” he says. “That- is that for me?”

Harley nods and picks the second mug up, holding it close to his chest. “You should probably sit up first. Wouldn’t wanna spill, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter chuckles, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard and subsequently realizing that the shirt he’s wearing _definitely did not come out of his closet._ He looks at Harley, eyes wide, then back down to the shirt.

It smells like him. That’s not helping his newfound feelings.

It’s not an attraction. He’s straight. Straight. Straight.

Peter can recognize how pretty men are, that’s all. Problem solved. 

“This isn’t mine.” _Very astute._

Harley laughs, eyes twinkling in a way that should _not_ be so attractive. “Nice observational skills you have there. No, it’s mine. You were still in my _other_ clothes when you came in last night. I figured if you were going to be in my clothes at all, you might as well be in the comfortable ones."

There’s a pale pink blush across his nose and cheeks. Peter would love to think that it’s because of him, but he knows that it’s probably just sunburn.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking the cup from Harley’s big hands and holding it to his lips.

“No problem, Petey. It was more comfortable for me, too.”

Peter furrows his brow and glances over the rim of the cup, question clear in his eyes. Harley snorts out a laugh.

“Dude, you’re really cuddly. Jeans are _not_ good for cuddling.”

This may very well be the most embarrassing thing he’s ever been through. Then again, over the course of the past few days, he’s had a lot of ‘most embarrassing moments’, so he could easily top this within the week.

“Oh,” Peter mutters. “Right.”

“But I don’t mind! I really don’t, trust me.” Harley scratches his hand against the back of his neck, and Peter could totally be imagining it, but it looks like the blush gets _brighter._ “You look- you look good. I guess.”

And now Peter’s blushing, heat rushing to the apples of his cheeks, and he’s smiling at Harley like an absolute dumbass, and-

Okay, he isn’t straight.

Awesome.

\- ♜ -

They work their way into a comfortable routine over the day’s to come. Harley, Peter finds, is not nearly as difficult as the media makes him out to be; he’s a generally chill person who lets him do what he wants and doesn’t bother him when he’s busy. 

It isn’t nearly as difficult a job as he’d been expecting.

Peter’s nightly stunts at the grocery store slowly change from regular to erratic to barely ever happening. He texts Ned and Michelle when he’s not going to make it and they don’t seem to need much extra help, so it doesn’t bother him too much.

Anyways, the grocery job had been mainly for paying for groceries and rent of his own. Now that he’s living rent-free in the tower, he doesn’t have to worry about things like that. The bodyguard job is more than enough to pay for May’s hospital.

He visits her on the second Sunday since the beginning of the job. Harley doesn’t pry when he tells him he has to go, even though Peter doesn’t know how to hide the blotchy red of tears eyes, just tells him to take his time and take care of himself.

Peter drops by the florists shop on his way. He picks up a bouquet of daisies- her favorite flowers- and buys a new vase to put them in. It’s blue marbled with white and gray. Looks like Ben’s eyes.

He thinks she’d like it if she could see it.

They have her on life support. A ventilator. Machines breathe for her, pump her heart, keep her brain alive. She doesn’t look like May in the hospital bed.

Hasn't looked like May for a while now.

The nurses at Queens Memorial know Peter by name at this point. They don’t try to engage in conversation, but he catches every pitying look they shoot him.

The doctors tell him she’s not going to wake up, just like clockwork. They do this every time he visits. The answer hadn’t changed for over a year.

But he isn’t ready, and as the last living Parker, it’s his decision to make.

He goes home empty-handed and alone, as usual, tears pricking at his eyes as he tries to breathe through the coming storm.

Harley finds him crying on the kitchen floor, clutching his knees to his chest with his back pressed against the cabinets. He picks him up and takes him back to his room, sets him in his bed, and sits with him until he falls asleep.

\- ♜ -

Harley gets to know Peter in a way that’s beyond friendly and quickly approaching intimate, and he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do about that.

On one hand, he knows that Peter- strong as he may be- isn’t in an emotionally stable spot with his aunt in the hospital, and it would be a dick move to take advantage of that for personal gain.

On the other hand, Harley is getting starched and his crush seems like it grows exponentially by the day.

He’s never been good at controlling that sort of thing.

Peter stays with him most days. They go to coffee shops, Walmart, the art store down the street so Harley can look at all the colors. Anything they can do to pass the time. Harley teaches Peter how to make eggs without hurting himself and cooks dinner (they eat together every night like an old married couple). Peter shows Harley how to throw a proper punch.

He subsequently breaks a glass. There’s no correlation. Tony and Pepper will never know.

There are days where Peter disappears entirely- with Pepper’s permission, of course. These are the days where the darkness in Harley’s head encroaches to a point where he can’t seem to resist. Self-doubt, anger, depression. The whole she-bang.

He’s becoming codependent. They both are. Logically, Harley knows that this is the point where you cut back and figure your shit out.

But Peter comes back after hours of being gone and breaks down and Harley finds him crying in the weirdest places and pulls him back together. Somehow, it makes him feel like he’s doing something right.

If he can help Peter, does it really matter that he’s slowly falling apart?

Nah.

\- ♜ -

Pepper’s sitting in her office when she gets the call, and in the end, she knows she’s going to wish she hadn’t picked up the phone.

Harley and Peter are both asleep. That’s probably why it goes to her- when they’re out, they’re very much out. Nothing can really wake them up.

They think they’re being subtle. Pepper knows how they dance around each other, ignoring their feelings like middle schoolers and sneaking into each other’s room when they think nobody’s looking.

She would step in- it isn’t very professional, after all- but they’re keeping each other above the breaking point and, when it all boils down to it, that’s what matters. So she leaves it alone.

Harley might be her kid, but he’s also twenty. Peter’s nineteen. They get to make their own decisions, and as long as it doesn’t interfere with their safety, she can’t find it in herself to fight.

The night is dark and starry. She can see the moon from the window, shining high above the cityscape that pans out across the horizon. This is the best view in New York City, and it’s hers.

Amazing.

The phone rings then, three loud tones breaking the silence. Eyebrows furrowed, Pepper turns around and picks up, wondering who in the world could be calling at this time of night.

”Is this Peter Parker’s place of business?” A woman asks, voice cold and clinical. “He isn’t picking up his phone.”

”Yes,” Pepper says, spine shivering with a sudden bout of nerves. “Yes, it is.”

”This is Doctor Chavez from Queens Memorial Hospital. I’m calling on behalf of May Parker’s surgical team.” 

Pause.

When Chavez speaks again, her voice holds a tinge of regret. Sadness. Pepper bites her lip, eyes pressed shut, because she suddenly knows what’s happening. What’s about to happen.

”There’s been a complication. We’re going to need Peter to come down to the hospital as soon as possible.”


	4. Dianthus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Sorry about that, guys; I've been working on some other wips that you can check out if you want to! Updates will be slow for this, as I'm working on three multi-chaps and one fic that needs to be ready by Halloween! Follow me on tumblr at silver-bubbles for notifications about this fic and others, as well as shorter drabbles that I don't post on here <3
> 
> Warnings: this is a heavy chapter! there is character death, and I'm pretty sure it's a sad scene, as Peter has to say good-bye. There is also a kidnapping and a bit of blood and gun violence! Please be careful, read safe, and mind the tags <3

"Oh, my _God,"_ Harley mutters, flicking the toggles on his game controller as quickly as he can. "I can't _believe_ you just blue shelled me."

Peter, sitting beside him on the couch in Harley's living room, doesn't have to say anything- the stupidly wide grin on his face is better than any stinging comeback he could think of. He swerves to the side, slamming into Harley's little avatar, and cackles as it disappears from view.

"I told you I was good at this," he says, speeding up a bit with a quick flick of his fingers. "You never stood a _chance,_ Keener."

Harley would love to argue, but he honestly doesn't think he ever did. He's been playing this _stupid_ Mario Kart game since he was _eight_ \- it's been one of the only fun things he's been able to do other than a few years of basketball back in high school- and in comes Peter Parker, who tells him that it's his second or third time playing and then absolutely destroys him.

"You're sure you haven't, like, studied this for years?" Harley asks, throwing the sleeve of his hoodie over his eyes. "Because I feel like you've been training for this."

"Training to beat _you?_ A likely story."

Peter finishes the game off pretty quickly, speeding past the finish line with a triumphant yell. Harley can't take his eyes off of the way his hair, curly and fluffy- he apparently gels it back- falls into his eyes and bounces when he throws his head back with a loud laugh. He wants nothing more than to pull him into a kiss right there and then.

He holds himself back, though, because Peter works for him and he hasn't given Harley any reason to believe he isn't straight.

The pride flag on Harley's bedroom wall is hidden away in his drawers. Even though he's well aware of the fact that Peter probably knows, it doesn't feel right to leave it up right now.

It's a shitty situation; Harley knows that. He's not afraid of admitting to himself that, yes, he has feelings for his bodyguard (what is this, some kind of weird fantasy trope?). No, that's not what bothers him- he's _bothered_ by the fact that he can't tell Peter about his feelings without potentially endangering his job.

He knows that Peter's aunt is in the hospital and this is what's paying her bills. Harley can't risk him leaving and not being able to afford to keep her alive.

This is impressively complicated.

He doesn't like it.

Peter drops the controller on the coffee table with a quiet _clink_ and leans back on the couch, breathing out a little giggle before tilting his head back to rest against the cushions. He turns and slings his legs over Harley's lap, kicking him teasingly in the side.

"Eat that, Keener."

Harley smirks and shakes his head. He sits there for a minute, looking down at Peter's sweatpant-clad legs, and waits until he knows that he's not paying attention.

Peter's upside down before he can blink. Harley laughs as he grips his ankles and hooks them over his shoulders, flipping him so that his sweatshirt drops down over his stomach. There's an indignant squeak from below, a quiet curse, and then Harley's met with the Midtown insignia on Peter's sweatshirt.

There's a pair of hands gripping the area above his collarbone. Peter holds himself upright, legs sliding over Harley's shoulders, and he doesn't think as he reaches up to grip him under his thighs. The position is flipped entirely- Harley is _holding_ Peter, who's practically _straddling his waist,_ and they're staring into each other's eyes like a couple in a bad romcom.

Harley can't breathe. He stares down at Peter's lips, swallows convulsively as his tongue darts out to wet them, and he's going to do it, he's going to _do it-_

The door creaks open. Peter lets go as quickly as he can and brushes himself off, averting his eyes. Maybe it hurts a little bit- Harley can't make himself look him full on in the face- but, when he sees the look on Pepper's face and realizes that she always knocks before she enters, he knows that it's the least of his problems.

Pepper herself is disheveled, red hair flying in loose strands around her face, no longer in her trademark ponytail. She's breathing hard as if she'd run to get here; now that he looks at her, he thinks she actually might have.

He's ready for a scolding about something- maybe he didn't do the dishes?- before he realizes that she's not even looking at him.

She's looking at Peter.

Oh, _no._

Harley subconsciously steps a bit closer to Peter, reaches out to grip his elbow tightly in one hand. Maybe he's afraid for himself- for what he's about to witness, for what Pepper's about to say, for Peter's reaction. Maybe he's scared Peter'll fall apart like he's been for the last few days.

He doesn't know if he can deal with a full on breakdown right now. He does know, however, that he'll deal with one if he has to.

He'd do pretty much anything for Peter at this point.

"Pep?" He asks, voice quiet and gentle. "What's goin' on?"

There's the sensation of trembling fingers wrapping around the hand he's resting on Peter's arm. Harley doesn't have to look down to know that Peter's holding his hand, to know that he's shaking like a leaf in a storm.

He already knows what's going to happen.

"You weren't answering your phone," she says defensively. "They told me you weren't."

"I- I had it on silent." Peter's grip tightens slightly. "Is something-"

"There was a call from the hospital."

Blunt. Very Pepper-esque. Harley knows that she's not trying to have this effect- it's not like she can do anything about it- but she's just _not good_ in emergency situation. She's even _worse_ about breaking bad news to people.

"What'd they say?" Peter asks, shifting toward Harley so that he can press up against his side. Harley ignores the way his heart speeds up; he has more important things to worry about right now. Still, he adjusts his arm so he can wrap it around Peter's shoulders and pull him closer, rubbing his thumb against the other boy's bicep.

Pepper takes a deep breath, eyes wide and teary, and steps back to lean against the wall. She places a hand over her eyes, chest shivering, and purses her lips.

"There was a complication," she whispers. "With your aunt, Peter. They need you to come down to Queens Memorial so you can- so you can say good-bye."

It's a lightning-quick change: one second, Peter's weight is completely resting against Harley's side, the next, it's just... gone. Harley is barely able to catch him, gripping him under the arms and helping him over to the couch. Peter's shaking too much to walk, gripping Harley's t-shirt with white-knuckled hands and a look of abject terror in his eyes, and Pepper has to help Harley sit him down against the arm of the couch. She sits beside him and Harley settles himself between his knees, holding him up as much as he can from a difficult anger.

Peter's weight is, in the end, too much for Harley to control. He slumps forward, head against Harley's shoulder, and lets out a shuddering moan that resonates to his very core.

He's never felt so helpless. He doesn't know how to deal with this stuff- death, the cycle of life, having to let go of someone you've been caring for for years. He's _never_ been able to mourn people or help those in mourning; Abby had been shipped off to their cousins and Harley had gone to Pepper and Tony. That had been the end of it.

"I'm going to call Tony," Pepper whispers, hesitantly patting Peter on the shoulder before pulling her phone out of her pocket and dialing his number. "You watch him for a moment."

And just like that, Harley is left with a sobbing Peter to take care of, Pepper out in the hallway with her phone held to her ear. He stutters for a second, taking a deep, cleansing breath before placing the hand that isn't keeping Peter from falling to the ground on the back of his neck. His fingers settle on the spot where his spinal cord disappears into his skull, right at his nape, and Harley rubs a few circles into Peter's skin before carefully leaning back and sitting him up so they can look each other in the eyes.

They're full of tears, not quite spilled over but fully prepared to do so. 

Harley smiles gently and brushes a finger under Peter's eye. "It's alright," he murmurs, even though he knows it isn't. "We'll get you there, okay? We're going to get you there."

Peter nods slowly, chest stuttering with staccato breaths. "I- I just-"

"I know."

And he does.

Peter wants to say good-bye. Wants to make it before May's gone forever. He needs _closure,_ needs a chance to let go properly.

Harley understands that.

"There's a book that I used to love reading," he says, voice careful and even. Peter looks surprised- maybe even confused- but he doesn't ask Harley to stop, so he continues. "By William Shakespeare. I'm sure you've heard of it- _A Midsummer Night's Dream,_ I think. It was my favorite story- probably still is, to be honest." He thinks for a moment. "There was a passage that I thought was really cool. I memorized it when I was ten, and if you want me to tell it to you, I can."

Peter nods quickly, sniffs a few tears back. He's listening carefully, eyes locked onto Harley's in that intense, dangerous way he seems to be able to perfect. Harley swallows, throat dry, and nods back.

"Alright. Here we go." 

And he does remember it, word for word, because when he says that _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ was his favorite story, he had meant it. The passage had been highlighted in that sky blue pastel he had loved so much, and as he speaks, he thinks his words would be blue if people could see colors like that.

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows," he says softly, reaching up to brush a stray curl out of Peter's face. His hand rests there on the side of his face. Peter leans into it, closes his eyes, breathes deep. "Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, quite overcanopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."

The passage that he remembers ends there, but he can't seem to stop talking- not with Peter breathing steadily and resting his eyes, not with Peter leaning against him. 

"I don't know what eglantine or oxlips are." A quiet huff, maybe a laugh. "But I know what thyme is. And violets, and musk-roses. You think of roses as pink most o' the time- I know I did- but musk-roses aren't like that. I don't think they're even classified as roses. They're white, Peter- _white,_ can you imagine? And the petals are big an' papery like daisy petals. An' they don't fold in, they blossom _out_. I'd never even heart about a rose with petals like that."

When Pepper walks back into the room after a few minutes on the phone with Tony, who's heading downstairs to pick up Happy and the car, the boys haven't moved an inch. Peter sits with his head cradled in her son's hand, listening as he rambles on about how good thyme tastes if you cook it right and the time Tony managed to burn it.

She places her hand on Harley's shoulder, murmurs a quiet, _"it's time",_ and helps him lift Peter off of the couch. He continues his rant, switching to the color of violets and how they can be pale and dark and how he wants to paint them someday (even though he can't paint).

 _She's proud of him_ , she thinks fondly as they help Peter into the car and Harley buckles his seatbelt, not once pausing to breathe. _She's proud of her kid._

\- ♜ -

Harley hasn't been out and about in Queens in a while, so he doesn't really know where exactly they're supposed to be going. Happy seems to, though, so he probably doesn't have anything to worry about.

Probably.

They're all packed into a black Sedan- Pepper and Happy in the front seats (Pepper has the phone with Queens Memorial's GPS), Tony in the middle row (he's talking to a lawyer about something that Harley doesn't understand), and Peter and Harley clustered in the back row. Out of the three seats, one of the two that are supposed to be sat in is empty.

Harley's ass doesn't really fit in the narrow middle seat. 

He doesn't really care.

Peter's huddled into his side like a baby bird, still shaking as the city rushes by around them. Harley rubs his thumb against his hand as usual- the movement seems to help him calm down- and hums quietly under his breath, eyes fixed on the traffic lights ahead.

He's too scared to check and see if Peter's crying. Harley doesn't know what he'll do if he is; he's not very good at this whole 'comforting' thing.

Then again, Peter hasn't gone off of the deep end, so maybe he's not that bad.

"So," Tony says, never one to be able to deal with an awkward silence, "Peter."

Peter looks up (yep, he's crying) and clears his throat. "Mister Stark?"

_He sounds awful._

"Can you tell us anything about what the hospital said? What we should be expecting?" Pause. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

Harley, personally, wouldn't have brought May up until absolutely necessary. He waits for Peter to start crying harder, to snap, to fall apart- but, no, he's just shrugging and biting his lower lip gently.

"I don't really know," he murmurs. "They said- well, Pepper told me that they said that I need to come and say- say good-bye, I guess. I think I technically did that a long time ago, though, so..." Peter gives a noncommital shrug and leans just a bit further into Harley. He's gripping the baggy sleeve of the Thrasher hoodie Harley had pulled out of the back of the car, rubbing the fabric against his fingers.

He's sensory.

Harley bunches up the sleeve as much as he can and shoves it further into Peter's hand, prompting him to take it in its entirety. Peter _does_ relax, however minutely, and he breathes a deep sigh of relief.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Happy says. He does actually sound sorry.

Props to him for showing an emotion other than irritation.

"Uh- thank you," Peter stammers. "I really- I really appreciate you guys helping me get to her."

"It's never a problem." Pepper, this time. "Really, Peter, there's no need to thank us. This is the least we could do."

They lapse into silence, but it isn't tense anymore. It's almost _comfortable,_ and Peter's distraction with Harley's hoodie seems to have soothed him into a more manageable state.

It takes about ten minutes for them to get to Queens Memorial. It's a large building- trademark fluorescent lights, emergency room signs, ambulances parked at the front entrance. It's nighttime, so there aren't many people around; Harley can see a woman at the front desk and not much else.

He makes to get out of the car, following Tony and the others, but finds himself rooted in place by Peter's tight grip. His dark eyes are wide, glassy- he looks like he had on the night of the shooting.

He looks _paralyzed._

"Hey," Harley croons, leaning backward and slowly prying the fabric out of Peter's clenched hand. "Hey, it's okay, Peter. It's okay. We've gotta go see your aunt, alright? Gotta go see her now."

Peter gives a rigid nod before following Harley out of the car. Once they're on the pavement, he attaches to Harley's sleeve, this time wrapping his arm around the crook of his elbow and gluing himself to his side.

Harley's not about to complain. If Peter needs this to feel safe and supported, he'll give it to him. No questions asked.

He's starting to realize that he would do pretty much anything for Peter.

"Ready?" He asks, glancing down to make sure he's doing alright- he's not, obviously, but that's to be expected. 

All he receives in reply is a shaky nod. He barely sees it, nothing more than a twitch of the head. Peter is small when he's afraid for himself and large when he's afraid for others; he stood tall in the face of his own death and literally ended a life to protect Harley, but staring at the realization that he's going to lose the last remaining family he has, Peter seems like a child. 

Just a little boy, clinging to someone's sleeve for support.

Harley leads him into the hospital, wincing at the bright glow of the lights, and carefully slips his hand into Peter's. Squeezes once in a show of support as they reach the front desk, Pepper and Tony and Happy a force to reckon with, Harley and Peter trailing behind.

The woman doesn't look up. Tony raps on her desk, clearly irritated, and clears his throat.

He's not like this very often. This is a side of Harley's guardian that he rarely sees.

She looks up, then, coily hair bouncing around her face. Harley sees the minute she realizes that she's got the _actual_ royal family standing in front of her; he's intimately familiar with that moment of realization.

"Sorry, can- can I help you?" The woman asks, clearly shocked. "S-sir?"

Tony leans in to check her name tag and props his elbows up on the counter. His eyebrows slip down his nose. He doesn't bother to push them back up.

Peter is shivering. Harley doesn't know what he's supposed to do, because it's _not cold._ Can people fall into an emotional state of shock? Is that a thing that isn't just reserved for stab wounds and blood loss?

Harley has no idea.

"Yeah, ah- Edith," Tony says, "I'm here with my employee." Peter flinches; Harley pulls him even closer. "We got a call earlier tonight saying that he needed to come down and see his aunt- some kind of medical emergency? Sounded like a big deal, so you should probably get on that. Fast."

He sounds coarse, short, angry. Harley knows why- this is how he puts up shields, hides his emotions, saves face. He can't afford to be sad like Peter, and neither can Pepper. They have to be professional in the public eye. No matter how much they're hurting.

Harley knows he's sad, though, too. Mourning someone else's loss.

"Can I get a name?" Edith asks, still awestruck.

Peter clears his throat and holds up a trembling hand. "P-Peter Parker, ma'am. Here to see- to see May Parker?"

Any starstruck feelings Edith had been battling under her brittle exterior crumbles and disappears faster than she can blink. Harley can tell that what's happening with May Parker isn't kept within the bounds of her surgical team; if what he'd heard from Peter is true, she's been here a while. Most of the hospital probably knows that she's- that she's dying.

God, he hates that word.

Edith looks terribly sad as she rattles off a room number- ninety-four- and murmurs something to Tony that Harley can't hear from his spot at Peter's side. She shoots him a pitying look, lip trapped between her teeth, and he sees her take a long, rattling breath before they disappear from view.

She's got a box of tissues on her desk. It looks to be nearly empty.

The elevator ride is quiet save for Peter's shallow breaths. Harley wants to burrow into his hoodie and never come out; this is _too much for him,_ God. Tony and Pepper look like they want to do more or less the same.

Happy is expressionless. The middle finger on his right hand taps steadily against his leg, but its rhythm speeds up with every _ding_ that sounds as they pass floors. Harley has known him long enough to be able to tell when he's absolutely freaking out, and this is one of these times.

"You doin' alright?" He asks, looking down at Peter. All he does is nod and tighten his grip on the hoodie for the umpteenth time that day.

Harley wonders if he had a blanket or something as a baby. He seems like the kind of person who would've gotten attached to something as trivial as a piece of fabric.

The hospital hall isn't anything special; it's just like any other hospital they've been in but, somehow, it carries a different feeling. A certain brevity, contained in the humming overhead lights and electricity run through the walls and wires. There are nurses scattered around, some in open rooms, some loitering by the desks, some looking over clipboards or speaking quietly.

Peter nods at most of them as they walk by. They nod back, sadness clear in their eyes.

Harley was right when he thought that everyone knew about May.

"This is it," Tony murmurs, gesturing toward a nearby door with a black _ninety-four_ above the doorknob. He's respectful, stepping back as Peter moves forward, releasing his grip on Harley.

Harley tries to ignore the urge to reach out and take his hand again.

The hesitance is clear, tangible, in Peter's posture. He stares at the door for a moment that becomes a minute that becomes two, frozen, eyes fixed on the doorknob like it's a venomous snake. His hand hovers above it, vibrating rapidly, and there's a moment where he wonders if he's going to be able to open it.

Is Harley going to have to do it for him? Is he going to forgo saying goodbye to his aunt because he's scared? Can Harley _let him do that in good conscience?_

He's about to step forward and do it himself when Peter's hand settles on the knob and twists, fluid and quick. He steps inside the bright, bright room, and without considering whether he's welcome, Harley follows.

\- ♜ -

May is awake.

_May is awake._

May is awake for the first time in what seems like forever, and she's about to _die,_ and Peter is never going to be able to see her again. But this is enough, because her eyes- the same color as his, warm golden-brown like honey and coffee- are open, and they're filled with a mixture of exhaustion and happiness and he's going to _cry._

"May," he manages to croak out, forcing the words past a dry throat. " _May."_

"Peter," she says gently, opening her frail, birdlike arms in a silent invitation. "Hey, baby."

The IV attached to her wrist is feeding something into her body. Peter, aware of nothing but his aunt, carefully avoids it as he dives into her arms and buries his face in her neck, tears stinging his eyes. He's sure his whole body is trembling with the force of his tears, knows his boss and crush are watching behind him, and doesn't care.

He has other things to worry about.

May's arms are thin around his shoulders. She can barely hold all of him at once now, not like when he was a tiny child in her house and she had to rock him to sleep after nightmares. It feels the same, though, in a twisted way. 

Peter is intimately familiar with May's embrace. He hasn't felt it for a very, very long time, but he knows it like he knew Ben's. _Knows_ Ben's.

They break apart after a few minutes, however reluctant. May's eyes roam over every inch of Peter's face, her hands trace his jawline and his lips and the hollows around his eyes, and she seems to smile more with every bit of skin she takes in. One of her hands finds his curls. Peter leans into her touch, gently holding her wrist in one hand, and takes a deep, deep breath.

"You're all grown up," she chokes out, smiling wider than he's ever seen. "My baby boy's all grown up."

Peter can't muster up the words to tell her what he's thinking. He just nods, lips pressed firmly together, and tries for a smile.

He knows it looks more like a grimace. He doesn't care very much; she knows what he means.

She's always been able to tell.

"I've missed you," he murmurs, unable to pull his eyes off of May's face- this is the last time he's going to be able to look at her like this. "For so long, May."

"I know, baby." Her fingers twist into one of his curls, just like she'd done when he was crying as a little boy after Ben, after Flash, after he'd gotten sick. "I've missed you, too."

He wants to stay like this forever. Wants to lie in her embrace, tangled up in all of her, and hold on as long as he possibly can. Because he knows that this is not forever, is not permanent- it's painfully the opposite, really, and the injustice of his situation hurts more than the situation itself.

"Do you know?" He asks, voice coarse and tired.

She just nods, eyes warm and face happy, and pushes herself up (it looks like it takes an extraordinary amount of strength) to press a kiss to his forehead. 

Her lips are chapped, dry against his skin.

"Introduce me to our guests," she whispers, still smiling. "I want to meet them before I go."

Peter hates that. _Before I go._ Like she's just leaving for a vacation, like this isn't for the rest of eternity, like he's not saying goodbye. Still, he does as she says, turning and blinking away the clouds in his eyes to gesture at Harley, Happy, Pepper, and Tony.

They look terribly uncomfortable; at least, the adults do. Harley, however, quickly crosses the room and kneels beside Peter to take May's hand and shake it. His grip is gentle, careful, and his eyes wrinkle at the corners. Every one of his freckles stands out against his skin in the bright light.

When Peter turns back to May, she's grinning a toothy smile at him, obviously very aware of what's going on. He blushes and glares at her jokingly before shaking his head.

"This is Harley Keener-Stark," he says, jerking his head in Harley's direction. "Harley, this is my Aunt May."

If May's surprised to know that Peter knows the prince, she doesn't show it. All she does is shoot him another smile and shake Harley's hand.

"I've heard nothin' but good things about you," Harley says kindly. His voice is quiet. Respectful. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"It's very nice to meet you, too."

In Peter's direction, she mouths _boyfriend_ with a raised eyebrow. He shakes his head quickly, eyes wide, and she snorts.

How is she so perceptive?

"And this is Missus and Mister Stark," Peter says, trying to distract himself from the trainwreck happening in front of him. "And Mister Hogan. They're my bosses- I'm a bodyguard now, May."

"He saved my life, Ma'am," Harley says. "I wouldn't be alive right now if it weren't for him."

Peter knows he's blushing. Nobody points it out, but May smothers a laugh.

Her cheekbones are frail, fragile, just like the rest of her.

She looks like a skeletal version of herself. This is going to be the last he sees of her.

He doesn't like that.

"Peter is very good at his job," Pepper says warmly, one arm joined with Tony's. 

"Very." Tony nods. "Probably the best bodyguard Harley's ever had."

Happy blinks, clearly affronted, before shrugging it off and shooting May an uneven smile and a little wave. He doesn't say anything. Peter doesn't mind. It isn't like he'd expected a personality one-eighty.

"Those for me?" May asks, gesturing toward a vase of white daisies on the bedside table. Peter had left them there a few days ago, and they still look fresh.

He nods.

She's trying to distract him; he can tell. May has never been good at changing the subject. She's too obvious, too flighty- she could never win an argument that way.

But the elephant in the room has to be confronted.

"We need to talk," Peter says, overtly aware of the fact that his voice sounds like sandpaper feels. "Before it's too late."

Pepper, Tony, and Happy take the opportunity to file out of the room. Pepper sends him a supportive smile. Tony's hiding behind his sunglasses, but Peter catches a glimpse of tears in his eyes through the shaded plastic. 

Harley rests a hand on his shoulder and leans down to press a gentle kiss to his temple, smiling against his skin. Peter tries to ignore his blush and looks up, meets his eyes, tries not to sound too desperate when he says, "You don't have to leave."

"Do you want me to stay?" Harley asks, surprised. He looks to May, then to Peter, then to May again. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Either o' you."

"You can stay." May nods, eyes shining. "It's alright."

Peter nods, too, and catches the cuff of Harley's hoodie between his fingers. "Please. Stay."

He does, settling into one of the chairs at May's side, an ever-present figure looming at Peter's right. He reaches backward blindly, fumbling for something to grab, and finds warm fingers gripping his own and gently massaging his palm. A comforting feeling, May's hand in his left and Harley's in his right.

Peter is tethered for the first time in a while. Anchored to reality.

He doesn't feel the urge to cry.

"I'm really going to miss you," he says quietly, eyes glued to the white hospital sheets. "I don't know how I'm going to go on without you."

"Oh, baby-" she's crying, though he can't look up- "you're going to keep moving like you always have. Just like after Ben, and after Mary, and after Richard." A deep, deep breath. "You're going to keep moving with me by your side."

"You're not going to be here."

"I am _always_ going to be here." May's grip tightens to the point where Peter can feel her fingernails, but he doesn't mind, holding onto the feeling like it's the only thing holding him on Earth. "I will be by your side, in your mind, no matter how far you go. I'll never be gone, baby."

Harley is silent at his side. Peter can feel him trembling, hears a quiet sniff.

"I don't want to be the last Parker," he mutters resentfully. "I don't think I can be."

"You can. You will. I know you will, Peter."

He doesn't know what to say. What else do you say? What do you tell your dying aunt before she leaves you forever? What do you tell her that you'll regret never telling her?

"I'm bisexual," he blurts out, frantically meeting her eyes. "I'm- uh- I'm bi. Sexual."

Harley smothers a surprised cough. May just chuckles to herself, shaking her head slowly, and squeezes his fingers.

"I know, baby."

The movement of her chest speeds up a bit, and Peter's eyes go wide as there's a sound from her heart monitor. May doesn't look surprised, just blinks and murmurs a quiet prayer, which he echoes. Harley, behind him, mutters something under his breath.

She's dying.

She's dying.

_Oh, God, she's dying._

"I love you," Peter blurts out frantically, as the door behind him creaks open and a nurse steps in. "I love you so much, May."

May's eyes fill with tears. "I love you too, Peter. I'll always be with you."

And, just like that, warm honey-brown eyes droop close. Her hand goes limp in Peter's, and all of a sudden, he can't hear and the lights are blurring around him and oh, God, oh God, no, no, open your eyes open your eyes open your eyes-

May doesn't open her eyes.

May _can't_ open her eyes.

\- ♜ -

Harley has to carry Peter out of May's hospital room, past Pepper, Tony, and Happy, and through a horde of staring hospital staff before he can get outside.

It isn't difficult in the instance that Peter is _heavy-_ actually, for such a strong guy, he's pretty light- but the way he's shaking and gripping his face and arms means that Harley has to put him down on the floor every ten or eleven steps to make sure he's not clawing his skin up. He hasn't done any severe damage to his face yet, but there are little crescents welling up with blood on his upper arms.

He doesn't know if he's doing it on purpose. Considering the fact that he doesn't seem to be present in his own body, Harley doesn't think he's actually trying to hurt himself.

He's grieving.

May Parker is dead, and Harley finds himself wishing that he had been able to actually meet her as the elevator begins its slow descent. She seems like, had he ever gotten up the courage to ask Peter out, she would've given him the shovel talk.

He would've liked to have gotten to know her.

Harley can see where Peter gets his stubbornness and quick wit. She look like him, too, with the same color eyes and hair and the same general demeanor. They're very similar, May and Peter.

He wonders if they're related by blood. What traits Peter got from his uncle, his parents.

He wishes he'd been able to meet them, too.

"You're alright," he murmurs, carrying Peter through an empty reception area, through the sliding glass doors, and into the crisp outdoor are. "You're alright."

Harley sets Peter down on a nearby bench as gently as he can. He has to sit down quickly to keep him from keeling over entirely, and when he does, Peter slides down his chest so that his head rests on one of his thighs.

Harley can already feel the tears soaking through the fabric of his sweatpants. He shivers, strokes his fingers down the side of Peter's face, and burrows further into his hoodie.

"She's g-gone," Peter stutters. His voice is choked with sobs. Tears leak in an unbreaking river from the corners of his eyes to his cheeks.

"I know." He wishes he had something else to say. "I'm sorry, Peter, I'm _so sorry._ I wish I could've done something."

Maybe he _could've._ Their family has all the money in the world, surely they could've come up with some kind of treatment or bought her a little more time. The leat they could've done was to move her to a nicer hospital, maybe take her home or to the Tower so she could die in a familiar place instead of a cold, sterile room.

Now all they can do is pay for her funeral.

"Nothin' you could've done," Peter sniffs.

His breath hitches.

"Maybe-"

"Nothin' you could've _done,"_ he repeats, turning to glare up at Harley. "Don' think like th-that. Can't go back."

Harley doesn't say anything. Doesn't really have anything to say.

They sit in relative silence for what must be over an hour, and nobody comes out to bother them. Peter cries for about half of it before devolving into rapid shivers, clearly cold. Harley rubs his shoulders through his hoodie and prays that he'll be okay, that he can help him through the fourth death of his loved ones.

He doesn't know what he's going to do, so he doesn't think about it. It takes about fifteen minutes for Harley to withdraw entirely into his mind, focusing on the gentle motion of Peter's chest as he rhythmically messes around with the brunet's hair.

It seemed like he'd liked it when May did it, and when Harley starts to twirl a strand around his finger, Peter's shaking stops almost entirely. So they sit, quiet and still, and they breathe.

Isn't that enough?

An hour or so later, Harley is pulled out of his thoughts by the appearance of a shiny black sedan that pulls into the hospital parking lot. Normally, this wouldn't draw more than a second glance, but Harley's been well trained in what he's supposed to avoid and point out when he's not under protection.

Peter isn't much protection right now.

And the sedan doesn't have a license plate.

He's on edge immediately, shaking Peter's shoulder as roughly as he can. "Peter, Peter. Peter, wake up, honey. Honey, we have to go, we have to go, we have to _go-"_

The occupants of the car clearly see that they've been noticed.

The front passenger door opens and a tall man with dark glasses and a bald head steps out. Another opens the rear door, and another follows the second, and Harley can see shiny black objects in each of their hands.

Peter isn't moving.

"Peter. _Peter._ OhmyGod Peter please-"

He doesn't have much choice but to run. Gathering up all of his strength, Harley hauls a pliable Peter to his feet and runs toward the front door as quickly as he can, feet pounding against the pavement, and then Peter's waking up and shifting against his shoulder and _screaming his name-_

There's a familiar pop, then a searing pain in the back of Harley's left thigh.

He shouts in pain. Falls to the pavement, skinning his hands against the rough concrete. Peter's screaming nonsense, probably trying to get someone's attention, but Harley can't pay attention to that because his leg is on fire and there's a warm fluid soaking through the fabric of his sweatpants, oh oh oh, he's been _shot._

 _That makes sense,_ he thinks detachedly, even as the sound of a fight filters through his ears. A few hits are landed- thud, thud, thud- but Harley can only bring himself to turn as Peter lets out a loud groan.

He makes eye contact just as the bald man hits Peter _right_ over the head with a crowbar for what looks like the second time- _clang-_ and he drops to the ground in a pile of limbs, all akimbo, completely motionless.

There's a prick in the side of his neck.

He doesn't remember anybody getting that close.

Even as Harley's eyes slowly blink close and he's picked up from the ground with rough, calloused hands, he doesn't look away from Peter as he's scooped up in a similar fashion and raced toward the sedan, following Harley. He looks so still, and there's blood dripping down the side of his face and onto the yellow fabric of his hoodie.

He looks like he's sleeping.

Does that mean Harley can sleep, too?

At the rate his eyes are clouding over, he doesn't think he has a choice.


End file.
